Number One Stunner
by metacognitive
Summary: Tim's never been one for girl problems.
1. one

Tim ain't ever been one to have girl problems, not that it keeps Luz from coming for his throat.

"You mean to tell me," she says, and her voice spills, liquid hot, between the two of them in his Camaro, fresh off the lot, practically, "that you got money for this damned car, but me talking 'bout getting married makes me crazy?"

"When you say it like that," he starts, careful, because she'll run them both off the road, he knows it, "it sounds bad, doll."

He can feel her staring a hole into the side of his head. "What is wrong with you?"

"Luz—"

"Hijo de tu—" she cusses at him, and it makes his heart flutter, just a little bit. She's always had a mouth on her, always been one to put him in his place. It's why they've been together for as long as they have, two years back in April. He swiped a nice ring for the occasion, pearl, but apparently that ain't the type she was looking for.

He's not sure what the rush is—he won't be twenty-one until November, and she's just turned nineteen this week, graduation still in the rear-view mirror, practically. Well. Maybe she was expecting a diamond ring, come to think of it. Tim sees her perspective for a split-second, but he's not going to say so.

"Nena," he says to her, knowing it pisses her off when he calls her that during an argument, even if it usually gets her hot in a different way when things ain't so fraught between them, "for fuck's sake, I got a record. You think this face is gonna get me in a magazine? You think they want some hood working in a hospital?"

"What, you gonna work a fucking corner the rest of your life?" she snaps right back. If Tim weren't hell-bent on winning this argument he'd ask her if she wanted to pull over and neck.

"You acting like I just got into this shit," he says, scowling. Funny how the drive to her place don't usually take this long; she's a waitress over at the Dingo, pours drinks over heads as often as not. Most know better than to mess with her—not because she's his girl, though in theory that's reason enough. She ain't afraid to throw boys out on their asses. Tim's real in love, it's true.

"Ain't you tired of living like this?" she demands, "I ain't tryna work at the Dingo forever."

"They'll replace you once the boys stop pulling at your skirt," Tim says, conversational, and she smacks her hand against the dashboard.

"Tim, d'you ever think 'fore you talk to me?" she demands, "Shit, or before you ever _talk_?"

"Okay," he admits, "that was outta line, but—"

"Why don't you wanna marry me?" she demands. Some other broad might sound sad, or hurt, or on the verge of tears. Luz just sounds mad. "It's been _two_ _years_, I'm done with school, why ain't we—"

"You got wedding money, baby?" he says, offers a little prayer to whoever's listening when he finally turns onto her block. He thought they'd get some alone time today, but from the sound of it, he'll be lucky if he gets so much as a middle finger from Luz as she stomps her way inside. "Or money for a house? What, you think we can just shack up in my ma's basement, pop out a couple kids and call it a day?"

"Maybe if you'd get a damn job," she says, voice rising, "you wouldn't have to sell smack to any Eastside hood tryna kill the last of his braincells. You ever think of acting like a man, Tim?"

"Don't talk to me like that," he snaps, pulling up in front of her house. With his luck, one of her brothers will see her cussing at him and come out like they need to defend her. They're a bunch of snot-nosed brats, though not anywhere near Curly's level of clownery at that age, the three of them between twelve and fifteen. They think they're big men, sometimes. Tim usually finds it amusing. "And I don't sell that shit."

"Is mota any better?" she shouts, "And I know you working with them mafiosos, I'm not stupid."

"That's not your business," he says, voice pitched real low, "and keep your voice down, you want half the neighborhood to hear you?"

"You don't care 'bout nothing but your fucking reputation," she says, and her voice wavers like he's never heard before, "I ask you where we're going and all's you say is _driving_, shit, Tim, we been dating for _years_, what the hell are we doing?"

He stares at her. "What, you wanna be a housewife already? That the kinda life you been dreaming of?"

"Is yours any better?" she says back, quick, eyebrows pulled together, her face covered with new freckles and still beautiful despite how pissed Tim feels. This ain't the first time they've argued about what they want to do with themselves, but the options have always been limited for them both.

"Nena," he says, "you knew what you was getting into with me."

"Yeah," Luz says, and something about her—shifts.

She straightens up, purses her mouth. There's still a lot of fight in her eyes, and it throws Tim off. She's not one to quiet so easily. Usually they stay arguing until one of her brother's comes out and drags her inside while giving him the stink-eye. She shakes her head at him, makes something heavy settle in Tim's stomach.

"I did." She touches her mouth, briefly, and then says, "Well. I'm taking it back."

"What?"

"Don't come calling no more," she says, voice curiously flat. Tim thinks the ground just gave out under them. "I don't wanna see you 'round, alright? Don't wanna be your girl."

Tim still hasn't come up with a good response by the time she climbs out of the car.

* * *

"Tim," Curly says. Tim thinks it's Curly. The room is curiously gray, and it's not until some of the figurative smoke clears that he realizes it's literal, too. "Are you smoking all your product?"

His kid brother's an idiot, but Tim knew that. "It's my stash," he says. Tries to say. It takes him a little bit longer than he's used to.

Curly looks disgusted. "It's been three days."

"And?"

"Three days," Curly repeats, "I didn't know you was the type to get torn up over some broad."

"Don't talk about her like that," he says, harsh, and Curly just makes a face at him.

"Ma's gonna come down here with the chancla," he says, like that's a threat. Their mother's smaller than Angela, and odds are she's passed out in her room right now. Tim has nothing to fear. He tells Curly so, and it makes him snort. "What'd you do, anyway?"

"What?"

"Christ, you're useless like this," he says, and waves his hands like it'll help clear Tim's head instead of just his room. His nose is scrunched up, makes Tim wonder if it really smells that bad or if he's just exaggerating.

Tim can't really tell at this point, even if he'll admit that it's been three days since he did anything productive. He's still in bed, after all, stretched out and wishing he had someone to commiserate with. Curly's not his first choice.

Curly says, "What'd you do to make her dump your ass?" and ducks, laughing, when Tim flings a pillow at him.

"Fuck you," Tim says, and throws his arm over his face when Curly doesn't take the hint to leave. "She wants to get married."

Curly chokes a little. "She _what_."

"That's what I said," Tim says, and sits up again. He rubs his hand through his hair, grimaces at the oily feel of it. "Fresh outta school and wants to play house already, no siree."

"Why're you moping then?"

Tim stares at him.

Curly looks defensive: "If you ain't tryna marry her, her not being your girl don't matter much, I'd say."

It physically pains Tim to admit this, but he has to. "Curly," he says, "I love her."

His brother recoils like he's been slapped. "Don't say that," he says, and Tim throws another pillow at him.

"_Leave_."

"It smells like mota in the kitchen," he says, "Ma wakes up, she's gonna lose it."

"Good," Tim says, rolling over so he can bury his face in his arms, "I don't care."

"You're dumb," Curly says, conversational, but he closes the door behind him when he leaves. He might be hard-headed nine days out of ten (at the very least), and enjoy riling Tim up ten out of ten, but sometimes he tones down the general jackassery. Tim's a little grateful for him today.

Unfortunately, however, Curly's proven right, and it can't be more than an hour later—Tim's not actually sure, since he's burned through his entire stash at this point—that his mother comes stomping down the stairs.

"Timoteo," he hears her say, and sits up faster than he should. His head spins a little. She doesn't do the full-name thing unless she's got something in hand to throw at one of them, and his ma's got good aim for someone who spends most of her time drunk. She says, muffled through the door, her Spanish solid and deadly-sounding, "What. Are. You. Doing."

"You didn't need to do all that," Tim says to her when the door bangs open, ricocheting off the wall fast enough that she has to throw her hand up to stop it from hitting her in the face. He can't make out her expression, the light throwing her in shadows, but he's willing to bet all he's got to his name—not that it's much—that she's seriously considering killing him once and for all.

"_Why_ are you _smoking_ in my _house_—" His ma's got a good set of lungs on her. Uses them mostly to cuss everyone in the house out, whether it's her husband or Tim or, lately, Angela, who at fifteen is running wilder than any of the other Shepard kids did. For once, Tim finds himself in agreement with his mother, not that they've been able to actually get the girl under control. "It _stinks_ upstairs—"

"It always stinks," Tim interrupts her, and dodges the shoe she throws at him. It hits the wall above his head with a solid thunk; probably her husband's work boots. If she were really trying to get him, it would have made its mark, easy. Tim's so high he's not actually sure how he's moving.

"Watch your mouth," she says, and switches over to English once she realizes he's not going to respond. "I do not want this _shit_ in my house." She's never managed to learn how short _i_'s sound like. Tim, growing up, got real used to being her voice. Used to resent it, just a little bit. Part of him wishes they still needed each other like that, but he knows it's a waste of time to think that way.

"It's in the basement."

She flicks the light on, squints at him same as he must be squinting at her. "Why are you like this."

He bites his tongue—the urge to say _Have you seen yourself?_ is overwhelming, but he's not in the position to fight her off if she throws herself at him looking for a fight. She's never done that before, but he's not going to risk it. "Qué quiere decir…_this_."

He says it so slowly it has her looking at her like he must look at Curly. She switches back to Spanish, says, "First of all. You sound ridiculous. Second," and she pauses, looks at him with a considering expression on her face. She looks like Angela might in twenty years or so. Tim hopes that's just the weed talking, though. She says, "Curly says your girlfriend left you."

"Curly's an idiot," Tim says, unthinking, and scowls at the way his mother just cocks her hip, eyebrows raised.

"So it's true?"

"Ma," he says, rubs his hand over his face.

She says, "I liked her. What did you do?"

He gives her a dirty look, not that it matters. His eyes are probably too bloodshot to make him look anything besides stoned right now. His ma's never much taken him seriously, besides. He says, "_Nothing_," and it makes her tut.

"That's as bad as doing something," she tells him, "how long were you dating her?"

"Two years," he says, "not that it's your business."

"You live in my house, your business is mine," she snaps, switching between both languages she speaks like she can't remember the words in either, "hijo de tu—my whole house smelling like mota, Tim, what is wrong with you?" She shakes her head, hair loose, fists at her hips again. Tim wills her to leave, but it doesn't work. "Two years with her and you say you did nothing, huh? Is that true?"

"If you're asking if I was two-timing her—"

"All you men are the same," she says with a wave of her hand, "but you are more like your father, I think, than most, and he was always good to me."

He stares at her, wary. It's not often she talks about their father, period, let alone making a favorable comparison to him. Part of Tim is convinced she resents her first husband for marrying her in the first place, like she had some dream of returning to Mexico that was squashed first by her marriage and then by the three children she had to raise by herself.

She doesn't seem to notice his silence, says, "If you did nothing then you should have been doing something. You take her out on nice dates? Buy her things?"

"I got her a nice ring."

She narrows her eyes at him. "What kind."

"Pearl."

He's a little offended at the length of the sigh she gives him.

"Timoteo," she says, and he flinches at the full name on instinct, scowls afterwards. What the fuck was she thinking, naming him that? In her less lucid moments, she waxes on about how he's an embarrassment to his namesake. Teo's been dead coming on seven, eight years, though, and Tim's not sure how anyone can hear the name _Timoteo Shepard_ and not burst out laughing. "Why do you not use your head. Girls like diamonds."

"Are you crazy," he starts, and it makes her expression shift. She takes one step into the room, and he watches her slip her foot out of her shoe the slightest bit. "_Hey_. I'm not gonna get her a fu—an engagement ring, alright, she's nineteen years old."

"I was your age when you were born," she says. Tim watches, suspicious, as she adjusts her shoe. "I met your father at eighteen."

"Neither of us is desperate for a green card," he says, and she bares her teeth.

"Watch it," she warns, and then shakes her head again, rolling her eyes, even. Tim doesn't have to wonder where Angela gets her bad attitude. "You did this to yourself."

"Me not wanting to get married—"

"If you do not want to marry her," she says, slower than usual, like he's an idiot, maybe, "then why would she want to stay with you? You are twenty years old. You do not work. You live in your mother's bas-e-ment," her accent, at least, is still amusing, at least until she finishes her little spiel—"and make her _house_ reek of _mota_." She sniffs. "Who would want you?"

His whole body aches at the accusation. Worse, nothing she's saying is wrong. He doesn't even know how to defend himself, not that she lets him. She shakes her head at him again, and it feels a little bit like she's disappointed in him. Tim doesn't like how the thought makes him feel.

"If you want that girl you have to prove it," she says, and then, "now go clean my kitchen, it stinks upstairs," marching back the way she came while Tim stares after her.


	2. two

If it were coming from someone other than his mother, Tim might have taken the advice seriously. But it didn't even come from his old PO, who he's been known to at least humor, so he's content to drown in his sorrows even if he's forced to scrub the tiles upstairs to his mother's standards first. He told her, after, that it wouldn't make a difference how clean it was if she was going to smash a bottle of wine arguing with her husband again, and swaggered back to his room when she started yelling.

It felt almost normal.

Like any down-on-his-luck grease, by the end of the week Tim ends up at Buck's. It's his first Friday without Luz. He can't banish the thought, or that he's going to spend so much time thinking of firsts without her. It's somewhere between late and early, and he might as well get drunk to deal with this. Part of him regrets bringing the Camaro—doesn't have much faith in drunks, and with good reason.

But the crowd is good, and that means the odds of finding a distraction are high. He fields a few greetings, grins at a few girls batting eyelashes at him. He takes the shot offered to him by one of the Schmidt boys, toasts to whatever the hell it is they're celebrating, before trying to find an opening at the bar. That's when he realizes there's been someone watching him; usually he's better about noticing those things. Has to be, considering how he makes money. Needs to keep himself at the ready for anything, threats included.

Not that Lisa Bernal's any kind of threat, of course.

Both the Bernal sisters are good-looking. Well, the older one, at least; the younger one ain't even Angela's age, after all, just a baby as far as Tim's concerned, but they look enough alike. It's her big sister that makes certain heads turn, though, pretty but not the way white folks like and with a bad attitude to boot.

Makes him want to laugh. Itty bitty Lisa, with the pretty mouth and eyes that perpetually screamed _fuck you_, running across Tommy Ochoa's half-burned bridges and playing them all. Made a pretty penny selling him out to Solis and drives around town in that tuff Pontiac of hers. Smart girl. Tim thinks he could like her, even if he's convinced she has a death wish.

He's pretty sure he's still right about that, actually. He almost admires the way she eyes him up while some other dude is whispering in her ear. She shrugs him off, jerks her head in Tim's direction, and the guy doesn't take more than ten seconds to scram.

She's grinning when Tim finally approaches her. "You buyin' me a drink, Shepard?"

He raises an eyebrow, says, "If that's what you wanted, doll, you should'a let that guy try his luck."

She offers him a fake-toast, and he sees that her glass is more than half-full. "I was gonna turn you down," she says, but she's still smirking, makes heat curl low in Tim's belly, "but I'll do it anyway, if you'd like."

"Nah," he says, and gives her a slow look over, making sure his eyes linger, "you don't gotta."

"Good," she says, her teeth a white flash, and takes a sip of her drink while Tim orders one for himself. Says, after, "What're you doin' out, anyway? Thought you had better things to do on a Friday."

There's a knowing look in her eye. In the same year as Luz, but then again Luz was held back a year and never got moved back up. Bernal was at Hale if Tim remembers correctly. Too dark to slip unnoticed at Rogers, not like her younger sister, who must take after her mother and not old man Bernal. Both she and Luz have friends in Brumly, though, considering it's where most Mexican folks in town congregate. Means that all the gossip gets funneled through neatly. Tim ain't gone around telling folks that Luz's dumped him, but that doesn't erase the fact that most folks have known they're—or, _were_—steadies.

Tim shrugs the accusation off, says, "Not anymore," and leaves it at that. Bernal gives him a more considering look, but before she can say anything further he asks her, "What're you doing out here, anyway? Thought you liked it better with Isaiah's crowd."

"Believe it or not," she drawls, "he's more busy raisin' babies than he is chasin' skirts when class lets out."

Tim snorts, says, "You saying I'm the type?"

"'Course not," she says, laughing a little, "we're in a bar, ain't we? 'Sides, I was here with a girlfriend."

"Don't see her."

Bernal rolls her eyes, seems to stop fronting for a split second when she tells him, voice wry, "She and her _ex_-boyfriend are gettin' friendly upstairs."

"So not her ex for much longer," Tim says, leaning into her space the slightest bit. He won't turn her down if she makes it clear enough she wants him; he knows she ain't much to entertain folks she don't like, and when he shifts closer to her she mirrors him, lets her face come close to his. She's a pretty thing, long dark hair and a cunning look in her eye no matter the time or place.

She's friends with Soda Curtis, used to run around with his grease-monkey friend. Randle's been in 'Nam since the past autumn, though; Bernal ran around with him for the summer, as soon as Solis gutted her steady in the parking lot not ten feet from Buck's entry. Tim was there, hauled Solis off Ochoa's still-bleeding body and told him to get back to Brumly before the fuzz showed up. Solis, on uppers and rowdy as ever, had laughed in his face, and Tim ended up dragging his sorry ass back to his mother's couch.

He made them all eggs in the morning, which is why Tim's ma likes Solis better than her own children. Tim's only a little bothered.

He's pretty sure that her and Steve were never steady, anyway. In the months since he's shipped out, a few of Tim's men have tried their luck with her and she's laughed in all their faces, sticking to Brumly even if it's now clear Solis ain't fucking her. Tim's a little relieved to learn it.

Bernal shrugs, says, "That's her business, ain't it?" and smiles a little deadlier, this time.

"What I hear is that you're stuck here by your lonesome."

"Thought I'd found some good company," she says, bats her eyelashes at him real teasingly, painted mouth still looking sweet, "you tellin' me I'm wrong?"

"'Course not," he says, and takes a sip of his own drink, sees that she's got half of hers left. He says, deciding he doesn't have the patience for this anymore, "Let's be honest, Bernal. You gonna make me buy you a drink 'fore we get outta here?"

"You ain't one for games, huh," she says, but she sounds amused. When he looks at the curl of her mouth, Tim can see why some folks call her _maneater_. "I like that. Keep sweet talkin' me, Tim, and I'll make it worth your while real soon."

* * *

Tim's only a little surprised to find both his siblings in the kitchen the next morning. He's still shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips. He doesn't bother with a glass when he grabs for the orange juice.

Angela gives him a dirty look, and Tim chokes on the pulp, just a little. Same face as their mother, and he grimaces at the realization.

"You're disgusting," she says, and Tim rolls his eyes.

"'S just juice."

"She was talking about that hickey size o' Texas," Curly offers, buttering toast at his leisure. Tim looks down at himself, and sure enough there's a bruise peeking out over the waistband of his pants. Fucking Bernal, he thinks, with only a little bit of fondness. They would've been fine getting busy in the parking lot, considering how far back he parked, but then she said she wanted to pull his hair in peace, and, well. Tim is a simple man with no real responsibilities, like his ma and—others say.

He _did_ drive her home afterwards. He's a gentleman in that sense.

"Mind your business," he says instead of answering, and puts the juice back.

"You was stomping something _stupid_ at one in the morning," Angela says, frowning, "slamming the back door, too."

"She laugh at you or what?" Curly says, and Tim smacks the back of his head.

"_No_," he snaps, and then to Angela, "you shouldn't be talking about this."

"You should be wearing real clothes," she says dryly, and takes another bite of her cereal. She makes a face at him when he tries to steal her spoon, says, "Get your _own_."

"Just a bite," he says, and she rolls her eyes, feeds him a spoonful of cornflakes, sweetened with sugar like Angela always eats them. He swallows, says, "Thanks," and goes to make himself some coffee.

Curly's sprinkling a little bit of sugar on his toast when he asks, "So who was it?"

"Curly," Angela says, exasperated, "what is wrong with you?"

"Was it Luz?"

Tim goes stiff, says, "_No_," at the same time Angela snorts.

"She ain't dumb enough to take Tim back that fast."

"Hey," Tim says, whipping around from where he's digging through the pantry for some Café Bustelo. The pot of water he has on the stove isn't even warm yet.

She raises her eyebrow, says, "Am I wrong?" and there ain't much that Tim can say in response to that, really.

He scowls instead, says, "What, nobody in this house got anything better to do than talk about _my_ business?"

"What business?" Angela says, "You sling mota, that's not a job."

The mouth on this girl. If Tim were anyone else he would've smacked her, but she's too old for him to be putting his hands on her. Doesn't mean he won't pretend, though, and he says, "I'll grab the chancla."

"Okay, _Ma_."

Curly snorts. Tim's just about to threaten him too when he speaks: "She was ugly, wasn't she?"

"Gross," Angela says, lifting her bowl to drink the milk. She's got on way too much makeup for it barely being eleven, and it doesn't help his mood any. He's being attacked for no good reason.

"She wasn't," he says, defensive, and she gives him a pitying look.

"She was," Curly says, sage, makes Angela laugh.

"I think you're right," she says, hand up over her mouth like she's sharing a secret, "why else would Tim get rid of her so fast?"

"What d'you think it was?" Curly asks, their eyes bouncing between Tim and each other, clearly enjoying themselves, "Brace-face? Bad hair?"

"I bet it was a white girl," Angela says, like she ain't blue-eyed as the rest of them.

"Can you two shut up," he snaps. His water's barely simmering, so he can't even storm out of here. He needs coffee first. "She ain't white, she's from Texas, alright," and that's what finally shuts them both up.

They look like they're both doing some sort of off-the-wall math problem in their heads, and Tim realizes that the Bernals are the only folks their age that have moved from Texas recently. He might as well have shouted _I fucked Lisa Bernal!_ out the front door. Then the neighbors could be in on it, too.

"Don't tell me you slept with the Bernal girl," Angela says, disgust curling her lip, and Curly turns towards him, eyes huge.

"No," he says, and when Tim grimaces he says it louder. "Are you _kidding_ me."

"I dunno what to tell you, kid," he says, "I'm pretty sure she wasn't interested in you anyway."

"Don't be stupid," Angela says, rolling her eyes and taking another bite of her cereal. She's got way too much eyeshadow on, and Tim thinks about how he's going to wipe half of it off before she walks out of the house. "He likes the younger one. Vicky."

"Why would you sleep with her sister," Curly says. He sounds like Tim's just shot his dog.

"I thought she liked Brumly types," Angela sniffs. "Gloria says she's seen her with Solis, anyway."

"First of all," Tim says, and rubs his hand over Angela's face, ruining her makeup and making her screech, "don't be talking to Gloria, she's nothing but trouble."

"Tim, you ass," Angela says, shoving him away from her, "leave me alone!" She pats at her face before continuing, "And she's right about her spending her time out there, anyway, ain't hardly any Mexicans 'round here and Bernal's too dark for any school but Hale, Christ."

"Angel, dollface," he says, lets himself fall heavily in the chair between her and Curly, "jealousy ain't a good look, sabes?"

"Ugh, don't be dumb," she says, "it's true, anyway. They don't like dark folks this close to Rogers, even if Vicky'll probably be alright to go there. Pretty sure it's 'cause they got different mamas."

"How do you know that?" Curly looks accusing.

Angela makes a face at him. "It ain't a secret, Curly, everybody knows they only got the same daddy. They don't even look all that much alike."

"Yeah, they do," both Tim and Curly say, and Tim can't help but laugh at the severe expression on the other's face.

"Listen, Curly," he says, "I promise I wasn't out to get you when I picked up Bernal last night. That'd just be weird."

"Of all the girls in Tulsa," Curly starts, and Tim tunes him out.

Says to Angela, instead, "I mean it about Gloria, _niña_, I don't like her and it's only half 'cause she's running with that twig-looking kid from Brumly." Tim's not going to call his kid sister's friend a skank to her face, but he's thinking it. A little older than Angela, not by much, and she's gone through enough of Solis' crew to make Tim uneasy about her friendship with his sister. Doesn't help that she just broke up with her boyfriend, Bryon, who never made a secret of disliking either Shepard boy.

Tim might have to kick his ass at some point, but he trusts Angela to let him know when. That's about all he trusts her with, though, doesn't matter how smudged her makeup is right now.

She tosses her head back, says, "Leave my friends alone, Tim, they ain't done half the shit you did when you was our age."

"And?" he says, "You shouldn't be copying nobody, nena, or running 'round with half the deadbeats your friends like to chase after. One'a them's gonna get knocked up sooner or later and when that happens I'm putting you on house arrest."

"You're so annoying," she tells him, getting up to put her dish in the sink. She starts running the water, knows better than to leave it there sitting—this house is a mess on the best of days, and Tim's not living with roaches again. "You bring girls 'round not a week after ending things with Luz, but my friends having more'n one boyfriend is, what, too much?" She shakes her head. Tim wonders if he's the only one who's noticed how much she looks like Maria. "You're full of it."

"And your makeup's fucked," he says, and ignores her cussing as he finally stands up to fix himself some coffee, Curly laughing at them both.


	3. three

"Ma says—"

"I don't care," Tim says, pulling his shoes on. Angela's looking around his room in disdain.

"You're worse than Curly," she tells him, wrinkling her nose at the mess. It's been two full weeks since Luz ended things. He's managed to avoid running into her, somehow, which probably just means she's been hanging out in Brumly with her cousins while Tim does his best to keep business moving from his end. Solis wants a fucking meeting with him, though, and with his luck, he'll end up face to face with her the second he climbs out of his car.

Even if Bernal did say he's been busy raising babies lately, Tim knows better than to ignore the call he received earlier in the morning. He knows what she said is half-true, anyway. Solis' wife is right around his age; he's seen her around town before, remembers running into her at a gas station, once, when she was still pregnant.

He's pretty sure Solis is constantly on the cusp of divorce, though, Lourdes hard to impress and known for it. The guy's twenty-three years old. Tim has a sudden vision of him in the same boat three years from now, and the hard realization that it's impossible because Luz has already left him leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

"Why are you here," he deadpans, looking for a belt. It would be just his luck to show up to Solis' place with his pants around his ankles.

"If you'd let me _talk_," she snaps, and crosses her arms over her chest. He doesn't like the halter top she's wearing, or how short her shorts are, or the color of her lipstick. Too red. "Ma wants me to go grocery shopping. She said you had to take me."

"She think I'm a chauffeur now, o qué?"

"Ma's at work and I ain't asking Mick for his keys," she says, and Tim privately agrees. Better that they keep pretending Mick doesn't even live here; it's not like he spends much time in the house besides to sleep. Tim still regrets not gutting him, all those years ago, but then Angela and Curly would've been left all alone.

Despite what Luz—and his mother—think about him still living at home, Tim knows it's not just unwillingness to change. He can't leave his kid brother and sister in a house with the likes of Maria Shepard and Mick whatever-the-fuck-his-last-name-is. He's not _stupid_; it's not worth the risk, their mother being as spineless as she is when it comes to her husband.

"I'm busy."

Angela scowls. "Doing _what_?"

"_Business_," he says, baring his teeth a little, and she rolls her eyes.

"It's my turn for dinner tonight," she says, "and all's we got is _Spam_. Who even bought that shit?"

"Watch your mouth," he says, finally pulling his belt out from under his bed, "what, we don't got rice or nothing? Beans?"

"No tomatoes," she says, "and I gotta buy pintos. Ma left a list."

"Why don't you just walk?"

"You wanna see the list?" she says, raising an eyebrow, "We're outta nearly everything. And I ain't gonna walk home with all'a that in this heat."

"Well," Tim drawls, "you're shit outta luck then, kid. Dunno what time I'll be home."

"Tim," she says, exasperated, and he moves past her, turns the light off as he leaves.

He says, calling back to her, "And get out of my room!"

She follows after him, telling him off, but it doesn't stop him from leaving out the back like usual, driving the Camaro out to Brumly in no time. He's on edge as soon as he crosses the intersection that separates the neighborhood from the rest of town; a little further south it's King territory, besides.

His men aren't taken seriously, not that far south, not with Tim carrying the weight of his dead father on his shoulders, and bad blood has resulted in a lot of it spilled. Solis ain't that short-sighted, might be the only man with a brain in all of Brumly. Tim knows better than to be on bad terms with someone like him, and it seems like the feeling is mutual. It's why Tim knows he's not going to end up gutted, same as his father was, when he pulls up to his place. If Teo were alive, maybe, he'd tell Tim he's an idiot for trusting like that. But Tim does, so that's that.

He's not the only one climbing out of their car, and he waves, awkward, at the original Mrs. Solis after she does first. Isaiah's mother is fairer than he is, with the same green eyes and sharp chin. She's got a baby on her hip, which means Lourdes handed off her daughter, probably, and ain't around. Tim wonders if his mother was the same, when he was born, but banishes the thought. Better to not think of his mother at all, let alone think of what she used to be like, before his father died.

He waits for Mrs. Solis to walk in before approaching the house, and he doesn't even have to knock for the door to swing open. Isaiah Solis, much as Tim can't stand him, cuts an imposing figure. He's also always in a good mood, even when he's knocking heads together. It's infuriating.

"Shepard," he says, and steps back. "Good to see you."

It's nicer on the inside than then outside, smells like good coffee and women's perfume. He sees, through the doorway, Mrs. Solis cooing at the baby.

She says, after, "Isaiah, d'you want me to take her upstairs?"

She's got a different twang than Isaiah, less Oklahoma or Texas than Tim's used to. She bounces the baby in her arms, just a little, and gently pulls away the dimpled hand that reaches out to tug on her ash-blonde hair.

Isaiah comes close, says, "I got her," and takes the little girl himself. He says, "We're good here, Ma," and Mrs. Solis smiles one last time at the baby before nodding at Tim as she exits the kitchen,

Tim tries to figure out what exactly is going on. Isaiah doesn't seem fazed, puts the baby in her high chair, and moves to the stove. He cracks an egg over a pan, the sizzle of it loud in the kitchen, and stirs it quickly. There's a blue mug of coffee on the table, and an empty one besides it with a bowl of sugar at the center. Tim, if he weren't suddenly feeling so out of place, would ask where Solis got it, because he's pretty sure he's seen a similar one somewhere in the cupboards back home, small and brown with painted on flowers.

Solis says, "How you doing, Shepard?"

"You invited me here," Tim says, unimpressed. "Thought you had some important sh—things to talk about."

Solis, as far as he knows, doesn't do hard drugs the way he did before his daughter was born, but he's always been a loose cannon. Reliable, absolutely, but the kind of man who'd swing his fists readily with zero hesitation. The type who'd usually win, too. It's a little crazy that he has Tim in his home to discuss business while his one-year-old babbles in her high-chair, but Tim's not going to be the one to tell him that.

"Right," Solis drawls, still at the stove, "it ain't a social call, Tim. We ain't friends." He turns, then, looks curious. "How's your ma doing, anyway?"

"She wishes you was her real son, I'm sure," Tim deadpans. It ain't even that far off from the truth—figures Maria would be impressed by Solis, doesn't matter that the only reason they met was because he passed out on her couch after killing someone in front of half the folks at Buck's. She probably wouldn't believe Tim if he told her the truth, anyway.

"Nice lady," Solis offers, cracks a grin at whatever look is on Tim's face. "You hungry? I know your crew keeps you busy late."

"I'm here for business."

"Trust me," Solis says. Tim watches as he plates some scrambled eggs for his daughter, who waits for him patiently, watching him and Tim both with big blue eyes. Tim wonders where she gets them from, then figures it must be from Solis' side. "I make the best eggs in Brumly."

He coos at the little girl. Maybe Tim was killed in an accident on the way over here and just hasn't realized it. He stifles the urge to pinch himself, but it's close.

"Listen, Tim," Solis says, taking a seat the table and watching as his kid digs into her breakfast. "I know you make a pretty penny selling hash and playing hippies, but how'd you like to deal with the big boys?"

* * *

Tim walks out of Solis' place feeling like he's underwater. Out in Brumly, Solis has always dealt with harder shit than Tim has. The legacy of his father didn't really allow for it, if he's honest, more known for bootlegging and the like. His uncle was a little different, but Teo died when Tim was twelve, in the spring. Maria Shepard was nearly inconsolable and her new husband less-than-willing to deal with the aftermath.

Frankie Shepard had been dead less than four years by then. Tim remembers that, too. Seemed like Teo getting gunned down brought up all the old memories that his sister must have been trying to bury with her second husband. Mick didn't care for it much, or for the three children his new wife brought with her, and sometimes, it didn't seem he cared much for her, either. Tim, at twelve, knew he wasn't invincible. Seeing death twice already had made it clear.

Mick might have gotten his hands on Tim when he tried to defend his ma, but at the very least the lines were drawn. Mick hasn't tried to cross them in years, not since Tim caught him grabbing at Angela. His ma, coward that she is, had tried to say the girl was lying, like he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Maybe that's when things really changed.

Or maybe it had started before that, when Tim started running with boys and men who had known Teo, who had worked for Frankie. They said Tim was more the latter than the former. Even if it were true it wouldn't make a difference; Tim had a drunkard mother and a stepfather who hated all of them as fiercely as Tim did him. When Maria compared Tim to his father a couple weeks ago, it was probably the first time in years she had anything to say about him. The longer he's dead the more his presence fades, no matter that all three Shepard kids have his eyes, no matter the portrait of Frankie and Maria in the hallway.

Mick tried taking it down once, and Maria backhanded him so swiftly he was sliding down the wall faster than Tim could blink. He was half-impressed with it; makes him wonder, though, what it is that makes her hold back more often than not.

What matters, though, is that Tim has been running wild longer than he hasn't. His crew ain't a _sindicato_, not anything that big or organized, but they're not just stripping cars anymore.

Solis, though. That's an outfit that stretches beyond just him, too. And thanks to Bernal—_Not Bernalita_, Isaiah had said, smirking, _my girl don't like her li'l sister none_—he's got a line straight to Mexico, a network that Tim doesn't want to think too hard about. The money involved, the product that gets moved. Solis ain't calmed down none since that little girl was born. He's just quieter about it.

He thinks Tim should get in on it. The money's tempting, not that it'll change much—he can't leave Angela or Curly at home. He won't do it. But he could save up, buy a nice ring, get Luz back…

Not that she wants anything to do with him or anything that has to do with how he lives his life. Tim's got to do a better job of remembering that.

Seems like he can't think of anything else, sometimes. Today he doesn't have the patience for it, decides that he might as well distract himself and do something for Angela while he's at it, and pulls into the grocery store parking lot on his way home. It's just his luck that a familiar looking purple Pontiac has an empty spot right next to it, its owner there loading up her things.

Bernal looks up when he parks, no doubt wondering why someone would choose _this_ spot out of all of them, and her expression turns a little amused when she catches sight of him. She tilts her head, her sister next to her as they load their groceries, and smiles just a little bit. Tim grins right back.

"Bernal," he says, getting out of his car, and she tries to rid herself of the smile, Vicky blinking at him for a split second before turning to her sister, confused.

Bernal nudges her, makes a motion that Tim interprets as soothing, and comes a little closer to Tim, leaving Vicky to rearrange their things at her leisure. "Shepard," she says, eyes lively, "good to see you again."

Tim finds himself missing Luz despite himself; she never one for coy games, even when they first started dating. She wore her emotions on her face, and he needs to stop thinking about her, but he can't. He doesn't really want to.

But he has to try. Says to Bernal, "The pleasure's all mine," laying it on thick as can be, not sure what kind of games she's into. She's not the type of broad to like empty platitudes, seems to like real conversation, which only makes him wonder what she saw in Randle—not that he's going to ask her that, least of all now.

"I'm sure," she says, smirk at the corner of her mouth again, her teeth white against the dark color of her lipstick. It smudged along his jaw, last time they saw each other. "Didn't know you was one for chores. I seen your sister here a few times."

"Doing her a favor," he lies, still grinning at her, "I'm all about good deeds, y'know."

"Ain't you a felon," Vicky says, conversational, from behind her sister, who brings up one hand to carefully cover her mouth. Tim suddenly understands why Curly likes her. She looks like her big sister, besides, hides smiles at the corner of her mouth just the same, eyes bright and too-knowing.

"Burglary," Tim drawls, shrugging his shoulders. His record ain't a secret. Bernal's too buddy-buddy with Solis to have a problem with it. "Can't draft me now."

"Oh, that's smart," she says, and then Bernal's nudging her backwards, shaking her head.

"No, it's not," she says, shoving her into the passenger seat. When she comes around she's biting the inside of her cheek, amused despite herself. "Don't talk to my sister," she says, "she's fourteen."

"I ain't here to make a pass at _her_, sweetheart," Tim says, a little affronted. Doesn't stop him from asking, knowing he needs the distraction, "You busy tonight?"

She gives him a considering look. "No."

He flashes her his best grin; it doesn't seem to impress her, but there's a smile lingering around her mouth, he's sure of it. "You know where I live?"

"At your mama's house," she says, cocking her hip. She's got her hand on the driver's door.

Tim ignores her tone: "You wanna stop by?"

She's definitely trying not to smile when she answers. "Maybe," she says, and climbs into her car. She offers a smirk and a wave while she drives off, and Tim knows he'll see her soon.


	4. four

July brings a heat more sultry than the city's used to. It's rainier this month, for whatever reason, makes the sweat stick to Tim's skin and leaves all the Shepard kids looking like they've stuck a fork in an outlet.

The boys get rowdy this time of year, doesn't matter what neighborhood they're from, and Tim threatens to skin Curly the next time he decides to pick a fight with someone from Brumly because he thinks he got the right to steal their girl.

"I'm in the middle of _negotiations_, cabrón," Tim tells him as they drive home, a shiner swelling up on the younger Shepard's face, "don't go 'round pissing off Solis, you hear? What happened to you having a thing for Vicky Bernal, anyway?"

Curly scowls, says, "Like I got a chance anymore, with you running 'round with her sister. Half the damn Eastside knows."

"That ain't true." Tim hopes to God Curly's exaggerating. Last thing he wants is his business on other people's minds, let alone their mouths. Doesn't matter that it's girl-talk—he feels juvenile, to want to keep that private, but there's a thrill of fear at the thought of it getting back to Luz.

If he's sleeping with someone else, what's she up to? Is she going to do the same, knowing he is? Or, worse, did she beat him to it? If Tim's still missing her, maybe she misses him too…or did, until the gossip got to her.

That's assuming, of course, that Curly ain't just being dramatic. He's got a penchant for that, just like Angela. Tim blames their mother for it.

"Ain't like y'all are being sneaky," Curly deadpans. Sounds like Tim when he does that, and it would warm his heart if he didn't know the kid was giving him attitude. "You telling me you couldn't hear Ma stomping around, madder than hell?"

"I dunno what you're talking about," Tim says, careful, because he can only vaguely recall someone thumping around upstairs last time he got Bernal into bed, and then, because he has nothing else to say: "You ain't got better shit to do than sit at home all day? It's summer."

"Are you stupid," Curly says, and tries to dodge Tim when he reaches over to flick his forehead, "Christ, can we stop talking about this now? I'll keep outta Brumly."

"Good," Tim says, and after dropping him off at home, heads out to the Dingo. Can't keep himself from warning Curly off Brumly again, like it's not more ammunition for him to turn around and go fight into another fight. His brother flips him the bird as he walks into the house, and Tim makes a mental note to get him back for it once he gets home.

He's been to the Dingo maybe once or twice, since the breakup, at times he knows Luz shouldn't be working. She's got a pretty set schedule, even if it's summer and she's picked up hours. Last he knew, she ain't around Wednesday afternoons, so he's got nothing to worry about. Theoretically.

Sal Rosas wanted to talk shop with him, and considering he's not in the know when it comes to Solis' offer, Tim's curious as to what he's thinking. Sal's alright by him, even if he used to crack jokes about Tim liking schoolgirls like Luz wasn't but two years younger than him. Just had to repeat junior year, and her daddy was of the opinion it's because her first time around she met Tim. He's sure the old man is pleased as punch that Tim ain't coming 'round for his only daughter anymore.

Makes Tim quietly furious, if he's being honest—he's got no time for that, though, not today, not ever. Who cares if he can't piss off Luz's old man by calling him _suegro_ while she tries to hide her laughter. He doesn't miss dealing with his dirty looks or pointed comments. He's glad for it, even.

The Dingo's moderately busy, summer meaning there's kids with too much free time and the heat making everyone and their mother desperate for a milkshake. Sal's already got a booth, bottle of coke in hand, and Tim slides in opposite of him with a nod.

"Tim," Sal greets, lifting the bottle briefly like a toast, and Tim barely keeps from rolling his eyes.

He returns the greeting, scopes out the place. It's mostly kids around, a few moms buying a late lunch for their kids. The waitresses don't seem too harried, not even—

Fuck. _Fuck_. Tim turns away but it's too late—caught Luz's eye and felt his stomach drop.

He says, sounding desperate even to his own ears, "Which girl took your order?"

"Yours," Sal says, and Tim could punch him. Figures Sal don't fucking know they broke up.

"Dammit, Rosas," he says, and then Luz is there, smacking her gum, her eyebrows raised like she ain't impressed by what she sees.

"Can I take your order?" Her voice is carefully neutral. Tim would give anything to know what she's thinking, and finds himself just staring at her for a long moment. Summer's given her even more freckles, the sun bleaching her hair to the same light brown it always does. She's wearing a new lipstick, he thinks, pinker than the stuff she normally wears. He used to tell her to wipe it off before kissing him, and she always went out of her way to kiss him immediately after swiping more on.

"I," he finally says, and then, looking away from her, Sal watching them curiously, "no. You want anything, Sal?"

"Nah," he says, expression open like Tim hopes his isn't, "I'm alright."

"Hm," Luz says, "don't want nothing, huh, Tim? I hear that ain't the case when it comes to girls."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tim says, turning back to her, stomach turning to stone. He tries not to let it show. "We doing this now?"

"You tell me," she says, the cold veneer slipping from her face faster than Tim expected. There's a steely glint to her eye, mouth curled in what has to be anger. "Heard you running 'round with one'a Solis's girls."

He sees Sal straighten from the corner of his eye—he still hasn't told Tim why he wanted to meet, Tim remembers. He wonders what it is, if it has anything to do with Solis, or maybe the River Kings, further south. Doesn't like the thought of that being withheld from him while Luz suggests he's got something going on with the Brumly Boys. Feels like half his cards are on display suddenly, and he doesn't like it.

"And here I was, thinking you didn't like _chismosas_," Tim says, and she scowls.

"Just 'cause you don't like my cousins—"

"They feed off that shit," Tim says, tries to make his voice as flat as possible. Better to come across as unbothered than make it obvious they're not just spreading rumors this time around. "I dunno why you listen to half the words that come outta their mouths, they're as dumb as any Brumly broad."

"That ain't stopped you from parading 'round town with Lisa _fucking_ Bernal," Luz snaps. There's a flush to her face, the color angry beneath a constellation of beauty marks Tim use to kiss across whenever he could. "Like her last boyfriend wasn't hardly cold before she was seeing one of them white boys you rumble with, sometimes. Like she ain't sell him out in the first place."

Tim doesn't know enough about Tommy Ochoa to get defensive about what she's saying—something tells him, though, that if a girl is willing to sell out her steady there's probably a good reason for it. Saying so to Luz probably won't end well, considering Sal's bottle of cola ain't but half-empty and Luz knows how to swing it.

Instead he says, "That ain't your business," and it makes her rear back, outraged.

"Are you_—_" she starts, and Tim waves her off like she's just a waitress and not the person he's spent the last few weeks missing worse than he would a limb.

"Ya," he says, "I ain't talking 'bout this with you. Who wanted to end things, huh? You said you didn't wanna be my girl." He shrugs, tries to pretend that saying it out loud doesn't still sting something fierce. "You ain't my girl, alright? If Bernal's interested, I got nothing to lose—and I ain't stupid enough to let some broad from the border play me like she did Ochoa. You don't gotta worry 'bout that."

He tacks it on as an afterthought—wonders, maybe, if that's why Luz is so mad. Maybe she's feeling possessive, still. Missing him the way he misses her.

She's flushed, mouth pursed like she's biting back a tirade that Tim would honestly love to hear. She takes a deep breath, like she's about to lose it on him, but then another one of the waitresses is calling her name and she deflates.

The look she gives him is deadly. She says, "_Fine_," and then spins on her heel. Tim drags his eyes away from her, unwilling, and only after remembers that Sal has been there the whole time.

"Christ," Tim says, and Sal has the audacity to grin at him.

"Didn't realize she left you."

"Don't start," Tim says, but Sal laughs.

"Bernal ain't bad looking," Sal says. Tim doesn't want to talk about this. "She's a li'l dark, though."

Tim blinks, slowly. Not sure he likes how many people have said that to him about her—not because he's gunning to make her his girl, but because something about it just rubs him the wrong way. "It ain't like that," he says, instead.

"Sure," Sal says, shrugging. Leans back against the booth's seat, the picture of relaxation. Looks smug, for whatever reason, like he's just learned some grade-A news he's unlikely to keep to himself. Tim can feel a headache coming on, and he doesn't have the patience for it.

"What was it you wanted me here for, anyway?"

Sal says, "Been hearing talk about Solis expanding, 's all. Think you know better'n me, though," and Tim…can't say much to that, can he?

* * *

Bernal's just getting off her shift at the diner near Hale when Tim shows up after that disastrous meeting at the Dingo, her Pontiac nowhere in sight. He's tense like nothing else, figures if a girl can't get him to unwind he'll dip into his stash again. He can feel the strain up his jaw, he's been clenching his teeth so tight.

He's leaning up against the driver's door when Bernal walks out, says, "You need a ride somewhere, doll?" and she looks surprised to see him.

"Shepard," she says, neutral, and tilts her head. "You're out awful East. Visiting Isaiah?"

"What d'you know about that?" Tim tries not to let his displeasure show—seems like the whole goddamn city knows what he's up to, suddenly. He's on edge as is.

She shrugs. Says, "Me and him, we get along."

He doesn't feel like unpacking that. Asks, again, if she needs a ride somewhere, and when she purses her mouth, considering, figures he has it in the bag.

Soon enough they're back at his place, and Tim's got Bernal on him almost the second his bedroom door shuts behind him. He kisses her, hungry, and she makes a noise against his mouth. She's warm where he's tugged her into his lap; he clutches at her, suddenly desperate to feel something—anything—other than the self-loathing that sprung up, heavy, from seeing Luz.

Bernal must feel that, though, because as soon as he's got his hands at her blouse, making quick work of the buttons, she pulls back, just a little. "You alright there?" she asks. She helps him push her shirt off, curls her fingers in the hair at his nape when he tries to move them straight back to kissing.

"What?"

"You're clearly in a state," she says, slowly, and he scowls.

"No I ain't."

She raises both eyebrows. His hands linger at her waist, her skin warm and soft beneath his hands. His breathing's too loud, Bernal's eyes cataloguing his every move. She's a smart girl, he knows that. Rumor has it she's leaving town soon, though whether she's dragging that sister of hers with her is anyone's guess. She's real serious, too, even in bed with Tim. He wonders if she's always like that—wonders if, maybe, she was a little different, before Randle left.

He says, unthinking, "You ever miss Randle?" and it makes her expression flatten, eyes like flint.

"No," she says, a sour purse to her mouth that tells the truth better than she could.

Tim keeps his fingers fanned out across her ribs, says, "You don't want to?"

She shifts, starts to pull away from him, but he doesn't let go of her, continues, "I had a girl before all'a this." She pauses; when it's clear she ain't about to high-tail it out of there, he says, "I kinda figured me and her was a sure thing, y'know?"

Bernal lets her hand slip down to rest against his collarbone, his chain warming under her palm. She says, her voice careful, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, "ran into her at the Dingo, earlier."

"She works there, don't she?"

"Yeah. Went about as good as you'd expect."

"Right," she says, tilting her head. Tim wonders if the two of them—Luz and Lisa, their names like a song—could have gotten along. Not now, but before. "So bad."

"Worst five minutes of my life," he says, seriously.

She laughs, but not cruelly: "You tellin' me you ain't had worse? Not even, say, the first time you got it with a girl and blew it faster than you meant to?" She's smirking a little bit. He wonders if she's trying to cheer him up, and finds he's grateful for it.

"That wasn't five minutes," he says, and she laughs again, a little louder than before.

"That why you wanted to see me?" she says. She doesn't seem put off by the question, so Tim doesn't feel bad answering honestly, watches her shrug afterwards. "Shepard," she says, shaking her head, "you askin' me for girl advice? Don't think most folks think of me as girlfriend material."

"I wasn't," Tim starts, and falls quiet. She might be right, at least on one count. Folks talked about it after it happened—Tommy Ochoa dead by Isaiah Solis' hands, witnesses aplenty and yet no one letting his name slip past their lips. Bernal shrugging, easy as pie, when she got the news. Not a hair out of place, never fazed by none of the things this town throws at her.

Closest thing she had to a steady after that is on the other side of the world now, not that she's willing to talk about him. But Tim wants to know if she thinks of him, if she misses him. She wouldn't be the first girl to have her man ship out. She didn't seem to mourn for a minute after Ochoa died, spent months on Randle's arm instead. Talk of the town, then and now.

Instead of saying any of this—bringing up memories of the dead, of folks who don't want them anymore, of all those things that Tim is maybe trying to forget—he says, "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Yeah," he says. "'S not why I wanted you over here, anyway."

"No?" she says, eyebrow raised. She leans back, a little bit, which must mean she doesn't think he's a jackass, at least, for still making a pass at her. "Why's that?"

Christ, she likes games too much. Or maybe she's offering him an easy out. "You wanna keep talking or what?"

She grins, a wide flash that reminds him he's eager for a new distraction, and says, "Nah, I got something better in mind."

Afterwards, she doesn't take more than two minutes to start tugging her clothes back on. Still in bed, Tim blinks at her, and when she catches him she looks unfazed. "What?"

"You're leaving?" Tim…is maybe a little hurt. Most girls he's slept with have tended to linger at least a little while, not immediately jumped to their feet the way Bernal has today. Luz used to—used to. It doesn't matter now. Lisa raises her eyebrows, and he feels defensive. "Don't look at me like that, Bernal, I just—"

"You ain't my man," she reminds him, and puts her bra on. Cocks her hip, says, "What, you want me to sit around and cuddle with you, now."

Tim considers it. Figures he has nothing to lose when he admits, "Yeah."

It catches her off guard, and he takes the opportunity to sit up, leaning over the bed towards her. She says, "Tim," scolding, but doesn't resist when he tugs her back into bed with him. She gives him a dirty look instead, says, "Can you put your dick away?"

"You were having a lotta fun with it not too long ago," he says, but gets up anyway, pulls on his underwear and is a little surprised she didn't use the opportunity to get out of his hair. Maybe she's worried about navigating upstairs. Doesn't matter, though, because she lets him maneuver them under the covers, her leg thrown over his hip.

She's a little stiff in his arms, tucked under his chin, but he strokes her hair until the tension melts away. She says, "You like this with all your one-night stands?"

"This ain't the first time I've fucked you," Tim says, and she laughs a little. He can feel it against his chest. Thinks of Luz despite himself, the way she fit into his arms just right, how she liked when he held her tight against him. Their bodies sought each other out in sleep or awake, and his chest feels tight at the memory.

"I don't…" Lisa pauses, like she's got to think about it. Says, after, "I ain't a fan of this part, y'know?"

"Not even with your steadies?"

She snorts. "I don't have a steady. Never liked 'em."

"Wasn't you dating some ain't shit honcho from the border?"

"Yeah," she drawls, and props herself up on her elbow. Her smile ain't so sweet anymore. "Solis took care of that for me."

"Don't say his name in my bed," he says, and she laughs, louder this time. She's real pretty smiling. He hopes someone's told her that before, because he's not going to be the one to say it. Says instead, "What's Randle then?" and it makes her mouth pucker.

He presses his thumb there and she shakes him off, rolls her eyes. "Basta," she tells him, and then shrugs, eyes slipping past him and fixing somewhere along the wall. She chews on her nail for a second before saying, "'S complicated."

"When's he get back?"

"September," she says, and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her hand rests on his chest but it's not the same as with Luz, who always touched him with purpose, it seemed like. Her hands on him because she wanted them there, wanted _him_, even if it was just their fingers laced at the drive-in, talking shit behind everyone's heads. Lisa says, "Only letter he wrote me was to tell me he didn't want me, fuckin' asshole."

"September's not far off," Tim says, because two months is nothing. He can't unpack that letter for her. Can't imagine doing that to—to anyone. Not even Luz, despite how raw the breakup still feels.

She shrugs. Says, "I'll be in Chicago."

"You could visit."

Her expression twists. "You think I'll just take him back, like nothin'?"

Tim's pretty sure she's more concerned he won't want her. He knows a few men who've come back from 'Nam and wanted nothing to do with anything that was theirs before shipping out. If he said so, though, she'd probably find a way to kill him without moving out of his arms, and he's pretty comfortable right now. He says, "Nah, you got yourself Tulsa's finest bachelor in bed right now," and it makes her scoff, but she seems amused, at least.

"Okay, I'm bored of this," she tells him, like they were too close to the truth and she knows it, and sits up, sets herself firmly over his hips. She fixes him with a severe look that Tim can guess the meaning of, easily. Figures he's a good enough distraction, too.


	5. five

The night Tommy Ochoa died, Tim was at the bar. He wasn't looking for a fight, and neither was Solis—hell, they'd just come from one. Had to deal with the River Kings, and Solis, a year ago, had wanted an alliance of sorts. Not the kind he's proposing now, but one to keep any fighting from breaking out. Tim and his crew joined him, dealt with the Kings, and gone to celebrate.

Buck's was just an easy choice, even if it was so far out of Brumly that even Solis was on edge. Back then, like now, he was easy to rile up. Liked heavier shit than most guys Tim knew—not dope, though he peddles it, still, throughout the Eastside. Tim had waved off the line he was offered before the rumble, and then again afterwards. Solis had shrugged at his refusals and then settled in with a glass of whiskey in one hand, talking to Tim about his girl.

"Lourdes is pissed," Solis said, "but what's it matter, anyway, that folks know she was pregnant when we got married?"

"Hombre, you're from Brumly," Tim said, "my girl's got cousins out there, all's they do is talk."

"You got a ruca? What's her name?"

"Luz," he said, taking a swig of his own drink, "Clemente. Think her folks are all Maldonados."

Solis said, "Clemente? No wonder she ain't in Brumly, I bet folks think she's a fucking dago."

"Sometimes," Tim said, "there's that baseball player, sabes? Puerto Rican."

"Pirates," Solis said. "I'm a Dodgers man. My pops was a fan, rest his soul."

There was something almost funny about a hopped up Solis crossing himself in a bar at the mention of his late father, his knuckles still swollen from a fight and his glass half-empty. Tim didn't say so, though. He'd seen men turn on their friends for no reason while coked up, and Solis was broader across the shoulders back then, back when he was doing most of the dirty work he's since learned to relegate.

Solis finished his drink and ordered another, a few of their men with their own broads and beer, and at some point he turned to Tim and asked, "You heard of some cat named Ochoa?"

He had. He wasn't impressed by the guy—Texan, wily, Spanish-turned-pocho. Solis didn't seem to like him none, either.

"He tryna start shit with you?"

"Define shit."

Solis snorted. Said, "Keeps talking about some fucking sindicato. Like I ain't heard it before."

Tim had, too. Tommy Ochoa had a big mouth and a short temper; drove around town in his girl's car, some Tejana that Tim had seen bumming it with Pretty Boy Curtis. Tim said as much, and a slow grin spread across Solis' face.

"She running with gringos, huh?" He laughed a little, said, "I think she's the smart one, outta them two Tejanos." This was before Tim knew her, of course. Solis half-explained it to him, said, "She's friendly with Lourdes. Hit her up a few times, 'fore she started showing. Real bright."

"You chasing after schoolgirls, now?"

Solis had laughed. "I ain't stupid. Broads like that keep you on your toes. Bet her man has trouble with her."

"Lets him use that tuff Pontiac, don't she?"

"Shepard," Solis said, taking another swig, "you think if you ask your girl to let you borrow her daddy's car, she'll say yes?"

"No."

It made Solis laugh again, louder this time, belly-deep. "Shit," he said, "alright, I guess your girl's different."

Tim shrugged, said, "Maybe some other girl I ran with woulda."

"Lourdes don't ask me what I'm up to no more." Solis shrugged. "Figure Ochoa's girl is about the same. Bernal, that's her name." He tilted his head a little bit, peering at his drink closely before his eyes slid over to Tim, shrewd and calculating. He looked like he was holding in a secret.

Tim straightened up unthinkingly, had seen that face on men like Solis before. It meant he was debating on showing all his cards. Might mean something good for Tim, but it might spell the opposite, too. He wondered how gone Solis was, that he was considering saying something like that after a rumble, their men scattered around them three sheets to the wind.

Solis says, "I talked to her, once." Sniffed a little, rolled his glass between his palms. "Lourdes don't know."

"You sure you don't like—"

"Basta," Solis said. He was still grinning, just the slightest bit. Tim sipped his own drink, waited for Solis to continue. "If Ochoa had any brains he'd let her do the talking. She's real convincing."

"She tell you not to bust up her boyfriend?"

"Nah," Solis drawled, "practically the opposite. Whatchu you know about Matamoros?"

Tim's Mexican side is from Jalisco. Had some relatives who moved back and forth, for a while, got papers even. His ma, much as he might mock her, had a permit when she showed up in Tulsa, back before she met his daddy. He'd gotten sent down a few times, not for too long, but long enough to wander, causing trouble where he wanted. The border's a different story. Solis agreed, clearly.

"Bernal, she's from Brownsville," he said, "Matamoros, shit, same difference. Ochoa might claim Houston but what the fuck've they got, huh?" He lit cigarette, lighter flicking on and then off, gray smoke concealing him for a moment, the whole bar dark and choking.

Tim remembers that there was song he hated playing overhead. Time seemed to move slowly and then all at once, shadows throwing Isaiah into light and dark by turns. When he inhaled he could taste ash, the bitter aftertaste of his drink.

"Matamoros," he said again, "that's where the fucking future is, Shepard. And his name's Juan Guerra."

In a few years, Tim will find himself in a similar situation—Solis spinning a tale like dealing drugs is going to make them all millionaires. That night in Buck's, it's less an invitation than the ramblings of a coked up bastard, Solis grinning like he had the world at his feet already. Guerra pushes dope. Solis doesn't touch that shit, and what's he care if deadbeats and soldiers alike come after him? He's got a wife to feed, doesn't he? A baby on the way.

"Bernal calls him _tío_," Solis said. "Her tías are friends with the wife, her daddy used to put in a good word with the gringos he worked with in Brownsville." He was grinning. "She don't like her boyfriend none. I think I'm gonna take the deal."

Tim remembers staring at him. What's _mota_ to a greaser? It's never hurt nobody, ain't hard shit that'll get the fuzz hassling him too bad. Solis wanted more—wanted the danger, didn't matter that he'd turned his girl into his wife and a soon-to-be mother. It was clear, considered what happened soon after, when Ochoa showed up like they'd summoned him, hair amiss, jeans slung low on his hips.

No doubt the girl he left upstairs wasn't Bernal. Solis knocked the last of his drink back, shoulders stiff under the hand that Ochoa let rest on his shoulder, too friendly.

"You ready to talk?"

Isaiah heaved the biggest sigh Tim had ever seen or heard. It might've been funny, any other night. He said, "Ain't nothing left to talk about, ese."

Ochoa looked like any Eastside hood; greasy and full of himself. A little shorter than Tim, built slim like a _matador_. He said, "I'll get you a good deal, hombre. Down in Brownsville—"

"You tryna prove something, Ochoa?" Solis interrupted. He looked bored. His eyes were dangerous anyway.

"I ain't got nothing to prove," Ochoa said. One second to next he shifted, no longer cajoling, his voice flat. Alarms were going off in Tim's head. He ignored them for a moment longer—maybe a mistake, but not one he could take back. He probably wouldn't even if he could.

"You sure about that?" Solis said. Tim lifted his glass to his mouth. Unnoticed, still. Ochoa's eyes narrowed and dangerous looking, his focus on Solis, still rolling that glass of his between his palms like he didn't have a worry in the world. "I seen your girl around, sabes. She's real interesting."

Ochoa straightened. He said, "The fuck you know 'bout my girl?"

"She's smarter than you, for one," Solis said, and Tim could see the grin on his face. "Far as I know, she's the one I should be making deals with. Not you."

Ochoa opened his mouth, but Solis had a death wish, that night. Maybe it's one he hasn't outgrown yet. Either way, he wasn't done.

Said, instead, "She runs around with white boys now, I hear. You think she's fucking one of them?"

Ochoa threw the first punch. Didn't matter. The shouts started up, Buck telling them to get the fuck out of his bar. Tim didn't even finish his drink, ended up outside, and things happened all at once, it seemed like. If someone brings a knife out, they should know how to use it. That wasn't the case for Ochoa. Solis, hopped up, a couple drinks in him, the best of Brumly—there wasn't a chance, really.

Tommy Ochoa dead by his own knife. Hell of a way to go.

* * *

Tim meets Solis at his bar, today. It's newer, even if it reeks of mota already. Serves the Brumly type, nothing but corridos and rancheras on the weekends, when men bring their wives out to shimmy on the dancefloor for a few hours, breaths sour on whatever cheap liquor Solis keeps on hand. He's playing at bartender, tonight, the bar not open for another little while. Tim finds the game exhausting, but Solis has always had a certain preference for theatrics.

In theory he's there to take the deal. It's what he's been telling himself for days. He just doesn't believe it, is all.

Lately the memories seem heavier. Frankie Shepard, before he died, his uncle Teo before he was shot dead. The memory of Tommy Ochoa bleeding in a parking lot while some broads screamed, Isaiah heavy against Tim's shoulder as he tried to get them out of there. Tim dreams of his mother asking him what kind of man he is and when he wakes up he thinks of Luz. He has two answers he could offer but neither seem like they'll fix the mess Tim's let himself turn into.

"Shepard," Solis says, clean rag over his shoulder, "what can I get you, man?"

"Tequila on the rocks," Tim says. He doesn't know what he's doing here, even if he should. Saying yes is an obvious answer.

Solis looks surprised. He says, grabbing a glass, "Took you for a whiskey man."

"Usually."

"Never been a huge fan of it," Solis says, quirking a grin. He doesn't seem offended that Tim doesn't return it. "Folks would say I'm a sellout."

Tim takes the glass he's offered, curls his fingers around it nearly protectively. Body counts are natural in this business. Doesn't matter how many times he reminds himself of it, it just won't stick. He asks, curious, "Where's your ma from, anyway? Don't talk like us."

"Arkansas," Solis says, shrugging. Wipes down the counter and then pours himself some Jack. He says, "Her folks was over here by the time she hit high school. My pops was from out West. Met while she was out there one summer and he followed her back. Decided he liked y'all Okies better." When he grins it's all him, smug and charming and killer as ever. "And all's she got to show for it is me."

"Seems real fond of that baby of yours," Tim says, lifting his glass to his mouth and finally taking a sip.

Solis' whole demeanor changes. Not so much smug as it is pleased, eyes far away like he's thinking of anything else. He says, "Yeah, my Elenita's real sweet, ain't she?" the affection clear on his face for a split-second before snapping back to business, straightening up like Tim rarely sees, something serious on his face for once. He says, "You been thinking about what I told you?"

"Yeah," Tim says. It's been the only thing that can distract him, most days. Poppy's always grown well south of the border. Solis got an in not with dead Tommy Ochoa but with little Lisa Bernal, who calls Solis' supplier _tío_ and got paid for the introduction anyway. What Solis has gotten tangled up with ain't new—maybe a little stupid, to Tim, but not anything that's never been seen before. Tim would go as far as saying that it's business as usual for a lot of folks.

Not him though. His history's a little different, not so severe, even if it's been bloody enough to kill his daddy and uncle alike. Not him, though, not yet. And that's just it, isn't it? It don't have to be so bad. He doesn't want it to be. Half the summer he's had, making breakfast for Angela whenever she'd whine at him long enough, watching Curly try and fail to come up with a good plan to snatch up Vicky Bernal, thinking about how Luz left him for the shit he refused to do, and the real answer ain't hit him until now. He's sitting in Solis' bar and thinking of saying no.

Solis asks, "I made a good offer, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Tim says, because it's true. Dope sells well. It makes more money than mota alone. What Solis is offering won't come Tim's way again. Tim doesn't want it, though. It's a truth he wishes weren't his.

"You gonna gimme an answer, Shepard?" Solis says. His eyebrows are raised.

Tim takes a deep breath. Stares at his drink again, then looks up at Isaiah and asks, "You think you're gonna do this forever?"

He looks caught off-guard by the question. Tim laughs a little, humorless.

He says, "This money you're making…it gonna send that li'l girl of yours off to school? It gonna pay for her wedding?…Shit, you think you'll be alive to see it?"

Solis' face ain't all that friendly, when Tim looks at him again. He can't blame him. "The fuck're you saying?"

"My daddy's been dead near ten years," Tim says, "Angel can barely remember him. Her and Curly, back when they was real little, and half asleep, maybe, used to call me _papá_. I'm all they got. You seen my ma's house."

Solis looks more intrigued now. Tim's not sure if that's better or worse.

He says, "What's your girl gonna do if someone kills you?"

"There a plan I should know about?" Solis looks too amused. Like always. All of this just one big game to him.

Tim's tired, suddenly. Tired like how maybe Luz was, when she finally decided she had enough. He thinks he might understand her better, now. He could take the deal with Solis. Take in more money that he's used to, buy a house and take Curly and Angela with him, make it a sweet enough deal that their ma won't put up a fight. He could keep them. And he could buy a ring for Luz.

But he'd still be doing the same shit he always does. He could marry Luz but that wouldn't guarantee that someone won't turn on him eventually, wouldn't suddenly make him friends with the River Kings or the Tiber Street Tigers, all those men scattered throughout the city with chips on their shoulders just like Tim. He could take the deal but it wouldn't do anything but prove everyone right about him. He says yes, he'll be dead on the street within five years. Money like that's cursed no matter who's promising it.

He tells Solis, "I don't wanna do this forever," and thinks it might be a nail in his coffin. This life isn't one he can walk away from, he thinks, not easily.

He can't describe the look on Solis' face as anything other than considering. He says, exactly what Tim was thinking, "Most can't just walk away from this, sabes?"

"That a threat?"

Solis laughs. He doesn't say no. "You know how much money I make?"

"I got a good idea about it."

"You really saying no?" Solis looks like he can't believe it. He also looks like it's the best joke he's ever heard. "You gonna walk away now? Leave your men scrambling?"

Tim says, the idea dawning on him all at once, "How 'bout I sell you my territory?"

Solis laughs. Belly-deep, head back. "What, you think you own a few square miles of greaser territory?"

"I think I got men who already know the kinda work you do," he says. "You tryna make money, pay me off once and the rest is yours. My men wanna stick with you, all the better. They don't, well. They ain't much competition to you, are they?"

"I own heaters," Solis says, thoughtful, and Tim flinches.

"That ain't—"

"'Course not," he says. He takes a sip of his drink, watches Tim with calculating green eyes. "You afraid to die, Shepard?"

Tim says, "No," because it's true. Doesn't want to—he's not done raising Curly and Angela. He thinks he might want to see more of the world than measly Tulsa and Guadalajara, pretty as the city is. He knows he wants to get Luz back. Solis wants to put a bullet in him over a bad deal, take the city for his own anyways, and no one could stop him.

Solis says, "Who you doing this for, Tim?"

And, well. Tim could use the advice, couldn't he?


	6. six

He wants to go for a real drink, afterwards. Thinks of the deal that Isaiah's offering him—the second one, not the first. Of what it means to hand his men over not like nothing, but like one last Hail Mary. What if he walks away from a legacy that started before Frankie Shepard was cold in his grave? He thinks he'd find him pathetic, maybe. Maybe Teo would call him soft, not cut out for his life.

And then he remembers Curly and Angela arguing over breakfast while he laughs at him. Of Luz smiling at him over that picnic he planned for her, a few months ago for their anniversary, no matter she was expecting a different ring than the one he got her.

He's not a picnic kind of guy, and she knows that. He wishes he could tell her she makes him want to be, though. It's just his luck, then, that she's at the bar he walks into.

It's not until after he's got a drink in hand that he notices her, even if it makes him cuss like he's stubbed a toe on something. The barmaid—blonde, just Two-Bit Mathews' type—gives him a funny look that he ignores. He scowls down at his drink instead, his grip fixing to shatter it. Luz ain't spotted him yet, is saying something to the man sitting across from her. This place isn't like Buck's, less prone to violence and the other seedy things that particular spot is known for. But that doesn't mean there aren't guys who bring their dates here hoping to get things where they want them to go.

Seven weeks now, since they ended things. Tim wants to throw up, or maybe crack this bottle over the guy sweet-talking his girl across the room from him. Maybe his stink-eye is detectable; soon enough, Luz is looking up and making direct eye contact with him. She's wearing red lipstick, a nice blouse that Tim has taken off her plenty of times before, and for a split-second, her mouth quirks up in a half-smile before her expression goes smooth and she turns back to her date. Tim tilts his head back, swallows down the rest of his drink. When he finishes Luz is looking at him again, which is all the encouragement he needs, this time of night.

He doesn't even pretend to care about the guy she's with—vaguely familiar like half the guys out in Brumly are, which means one of her cousins set her up. It was probably Daisy, who hates him enough that Tim feels obligated to dislike her right back. He says, "Luz," and watches how it makes her mouth pucker up. He's standing in front of her, missing her so bad it hurts.

She sighs, deep and annoyed. When she turns to him her eyebrows are screwed up. "Tim," she says, stiff like he's a stranger. Like he hasn't seen every single one of her moods, from the happiest to the angriest, her drunken exuberance or the deep, sorrowful look in her eye when her mother died, less than a year after they first started going out. She says, "Can I help you with something? I'm a little busy."

Tim spares a glance to her date. When he starts to speak, Tim cuts him off. "Ain't seen you in a while."

"I've been working," she says, flat. Raises a single eyebrow. "You doing the same?" When he hesitates she smirks a little bit. It bites. "Ain't surprised."

"Don't worry about my line of work, _nena_," he drawls, "last we spoke, you was wondering if I was running 'round with someone else. And here you are. With someone else." The last three words come out harder than he means them to. He knows, from the way that she glances up at him from under her eyelashes, that _she_ knows what it means.

"Buddy," her date says, and Tim fixes him with a look that shuts him up quick enough.

"I ain't your buddy," he says. "You're out with my girl, ese. She tell you that?"

"I ain't your girl," she snaps, "'specially not now that you're running 'round with that _bitch_ from Texas."

"So you admit you want me back?" Tim says, turning back to her. There's more bravado in his voice than how he really feels, and Luz's face twists up.

"Sabes qué?" she says, and stands up. Her date looks surprised—Tim isn't. She's always been a firecracker. He likes her that way. "Maybe I do. Maybe I'd say yes if you came crawling back."

"Yeah?"

She tosses her head back, says, "If you had anything to show for yourself, yeah, I would. But you ain't got nothing, do you, Tim?" She raises an eyebrow, purses her lips. He's never seen that color on her. Tim's not sure how he likes it. "You still selling mota. You still taking the easy way out."

"Nena," he says, wanting to lean into her space but knowing she'll bust her bottle over his head, "you don't know _shit_ about what I've been up to since you left."

"You been running 'round with Lisa Bernal for weeks," she says. It's not really jealousy coloring her tone, he thinks. More like sadness. That makes him feel worse. "You know what they say 'bout her?"

"I don't care about talk—"

"That's not what I'm saying," Luz says. She looks real serious. Concerned, maybe; Tim's hoping. "Practically danced on her steady's grave. Runs around Isaiah Solis like he ain't slinging dope and whatever the hell else he gets shipped up from the border. Like he ain't the one who killed that boy in the first place."

Tim says, hating that he means every word, "You don't know what happened."

She stares at him. Across from her, her date is fidgeting. "Only 'cause you never told me."

"Why d'you need to know?" he asks her, genuinely curious, "Half the folks there said they wasn't. No one said squat to the fuzz when they came by, either."

"Yeah, and you dragged Isaiah back to your couch like he was your friend," Luz says. Her eyes are steely, eyebrows pulled together, all her focus on him. It doesn't feel as sweet as it used to; he hates to think it's his fault.

"You didn't know Ochoa," Tim says. "Hell, I barely did. And nobody knew him like Bernal."

"What, so you think it's alright that she practically ordered him dead—"

"That's not what happened."

"Then what did?" She's irritated, now. Louder than maybe she means to be. Her date looks bored, and Tim has half a mind to throw him out the bar door. When he reaches out to her, his curled fingers around her wrist make Tim see red. He'd practically forgotten they weren't alone.

"Let's beat it, babe," the guy says. "Doubt your man here wants—"

"Shut the fuck up," they say together, and maybe Tim's breath catches when she looks at him.

"Let go of me," she tells the guy, and his face is a lot less friendly for it.

"Listen here," he starts, and then Tim lets himself grab the guy by his collar like he's wanted to the past twenty minutes.

"How about _you_ listen," Tim says. Shakes him a little, likes that the guy immediately took his hand off Luz. "I'm gonna let go of you, and you're gonna walk out the door. Don't think I gotta say what'll happen if you don't."

Luz's date ain't bigger than Tim—same height but none of the bulk, and none of the coldhearted willingness to throw a man over the bar for even thinking of disrespecting his girl. Doesn't matter that it's been near two months now that she left him. Tim doesn't want anyone but her, and he's mad enough to admit it for once.

He doesn't have to, though, her date scurrying off the second he lets go of him. Luz doesn't look too put off by it, even if she's scowling at him.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" she says, and grabs for her purse.

"Luz—"

"I'm leaving," she says, voice flat, "gotta catch a fucking bus, since you scared off my ride."

"I'll take you," Tim says. She just looks at him for a long time. Takes a deep breath. He knows she wants to say yes. He's praying for it.

Eventually, she says, "_Fine_," and lets Tim trail after her as she walks out of the place.

He's reminded of the last time they were in a car together, finds himself flinching at the memory of her dumping him. He's just convinced himself that the silence isn't _that_ awkward when Luz speaks.

"Why're you defending Bernal," she says. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear how hurt she really is.

"I'm not," he says, because he isn't, not really. He knew enough about Ochoa to know that his death wasn't a real loss. And based off what Solis told him, it meant a lot of good things for him and both Bernal girls. Ochoa was a burnout, knew a handful of boys down in Matamoros and thought that his volatile relationship with the oldest of the _Tejana bitches_ no one in town likes would be enough.

Tim thinks of what Isaiah said: _Bernal don't share nothing with nobody. But my girl's real sharp, see. There are only a few places girls get bruised up like that. And last I heard, old man Bernal doesn't care what them girls get up to_. Tim doesn't think the part about their father is necessarily true—Mick can't be trusted, as far as he's concerned, doesn't matter that he knows better to even glance at Angela these days. But it's true that the Bernals run their own show, always have, since they first came to town. How else would it explain Lisa's Texan steady, her running 'round with Steve, how she rubs elbows with Solis? The younger one is shaping up to be just as wild, if Curly's crush on her is any indication.

Tim remembers Ochoa. He spoke to him just enough to know he was the kind of man to get violent when angry, or otherwise inconvenienced. So Solis saying that his girl saw the bruises that were probably a gift from him to Bernal…he'll believe it. What he says to Luz is, "Ochoa wasn't a good man."

It makes Luz laugh. "Oh yeah? What makes you say that?"

Tim considers the odds of this getting back to Bernal. Luz ain't a gossip, but she likes going to her cousins for advice, despite their general idiocy. If it gets to them it'll spread through Brumly, and Bernal spends enough time out there, and has enough brains, to be able to trace it back to him. But this ain't the kind of thing that Luz would go and talk about with just anyone, anyway.

He says, "Ochoa used to throw her around," and from the corner of his eye watches Luz whip her head towards him.

"What?"

He bites the inside of his cheek. "Solis' girl is friendly with her. Saw her afterwards, a couple times."

"She was with that mechanic the next week."

"Luz," he says, light ahead of them red already. He looks at her. "You woulda waited, if you was her?"

Luz is quiet. She says, voice uncharacteristically soft, "Are you seeing her, now?"

"Christ," Tim says, and the light is green again. They'll be at her place in a few short minutes. He misses her already. "No. I ain't seeing nobody." He waits a second or two before asking, "Are you?"

"You scared off my first try," Luz says, wryly, and slumps back in her seat when it makes Tim scowl. "Christ, Tim. We was steadies two years. That don't just go away."

"I know," he says. Swallows. They say nothing for the rest of the ride, not that her daddy's house is all that far. He parks right in front of it; remembers, before, that he tried to park a car in front of or behind it, to avoid her father and maybe get some necking in before the night was over, even if they were coming straight from his place. He takes a breath—it hurts, a little bit. He says, "I miss you."

"I miss you too." She picks at her skirt. "You ain't changed a bit, though."

"That a bad thing?"

"We broke up because we ain't got a future together," she says. The statement burns. She's looking straight at him, though, and Tim doesn't want her to ever look away. "I ain't gonna sit pretty 'til you die, Tim."

"Who says I'm—"

"Your daddy's dead," she says, and it feels like she's punched the air out of him. "Your tío, too. Who's next, huh?" She shakes her head. "I can't watch you die, alright. I won't do it."

Tim doesn't have a good response, doesn't have any at all. He says, "Luz," and when she looks up at him from under her eyelashes again he leans in to kiss her, fingers curling in her hair as she reaches up to cup his jaw. He kisses her and kisses her, listens to the way her breath hitches when she says his name, and then kisses her again, her arms around his neck, his hand slipping down her waist.

She keeps their foreheads pressed together afterwards. Then she says, "Thanks for the ride home," and slowly, slowly pulls away, slipping from his grip like water might. Like he didn't have a chance in the first place.

* * *

Curly's up when he gets home, eyes wild while he paces around the kitchen.

Tim's not in the mood to deal with anything else, says, "_What_?" harsher than he should.

"Sal called," Curly says. He looks pale—sick. All the Shepards came out brown, doesn't matter that folks think it means they're from Black Irish stock. Frankie was near blonde come summertime; it's harder to tell whether they all take after him or Maria, sometimes. Seeing Curly like this sets Tim on edge worse than he already was, repeating Luz's words in his head, thinking of how she held onto him like she didn't want to let go.

"And?"

"River Kings," Curly says, "something about los Chiquis getting caught up."

"God fucking damn it," Tim says, louder than he maybe needs to be, if the way Curly flinches means anything. He's angry, suddenly, sick and tired of the never-ending list of things he's got to do every day just to start all over the next morning. Maybe he'd feel the same way if he was a roofer, or a car salesman, or whatever job Luz thinks he'd be good at. But at least then it wouldn't be a question of life and death. He's pretty sure he'd just have to forgo a new car every now and again.

"He said to—"

"I'll deal with it," Tim snaps, and goes for the phone. He doesn't dial anyone, though, holds it to his ear while he stares out over the kitchen. Curly's watching him with huge eyes, and he wonders what he was up to when he got the call. He's a little surprised that he's home at all, actually.

Isaiah said he'd take it all of his hands, that they'd get themselves a good deal. All Tim has to do is make it clear to his men what it means, but Solis said it best. He's got all the power and money he needs out in Brumly. If a few stragglers—because there are always men who think they're the next coming, a notion that Tim's grown out of in the last few months—want to put up a fight, Solis has no qualms squashing any unrest and coming out stronger for it.

Tim's men aren't idiots, though. At least most of them aren't.

"Goddamn it," Tim repeats, and puts the phone down. There ain't much for him to do, this time of night. If the River Kings are acting up it means he's got to call Solis again, considering their old team-up, the memories fresh from his most recent visit to Brumly and Luz asking after Ochoa, who's probably buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in Tulsa, now that he's thinking about it.

None of it matters, he realizes. He's going to take Isaiah's offer and wash his hands of as much of this as he can. In the morning he'll call. In the morning he'll figure out what this all means.

He says to Curly, "You're home early," and he blinks at him.

"What?"

"'S barely nine," Tim says, "usually you're out chasing skirts."

Curly scowls. "Maybe I was," he says, and then rolls his eyes at whatever look's on Tim's face. He says, a little haughty, "I was out with Bernal, alright?"

Tim does a double take. "Lisa?"

"What? No," Curly says, "Vicky."

He can't help himself—starts laughing. Thinks of _Bernalita_, the nickname that Isaiah christened the youngest Bernal however long ago, and can only imagine how much trouble she's going to be as soon as she's left to her own devices. Tim says, still laughing, "Her sister's gonna kill you soon as she finds out."

Curly has the wherewithal to look embarrassed when he says, "She did."

Tim stops laughing. Says, "Wanna explain why you ain't dead in a ditch somewhere, then?" Ain't nothing or nobody that Lisa Bernal loves like that girl of hers. Tim's pretty sure she'd double cross anybody, alive or dead, so long as it means keeping her safe.

"I didn't stick around past the hair-pulling," Curly says, and Tim laughs again, because he can imagine it, don't matter that Vicky's been taller for years. Laughs because this is the kind of story he doesn't have to feel guilty about, knows it just means his kid brother is being exactly that: a dumb kid. Laughs because tomorrow he'll make what's hopefully the most important phone call of his life, and then maybe _he_ can make something of himself that's closer to a nice story than a cautionary tale.

He says, "Jesus Christ, kid," and Curly just grins at him, clueless as can be.


	7. seven

"You're staying here," Tim says, and Curly flares up, a firecracker in their kitchen while Tim makes himself coffee, neither of them having gotten much sleep. Angela's sitting on the stairs, not even trying to be subtle. Tim's got to out to Brumly and then to the Southside, where the River Kings linger, and he's hoping he can keep Curly from even sniffing around. Isaiah's waiting on him, and with two of his men hospitalized he feels like he's got the devil breathing down his neck.

"This ain't my first rumble—"

"Kings carry heaters," Tim snaps, finally, and spins around fast enough to catch Curly's flinch. "Solis and his gang, too. Fuck you wanna do, die at seventeen?"

"You ain't hardly older," Curly says, and Tim cuts him off.

"This ain't a rumble," he says, "Solis said—"

"What, he's your steady now?" Curly takes the cuff to the head and is lucky Tim doesn't do worse. He's scowling when he speaks next, "Why's it matter that Solis know—"

"We're cutting a _deal_," Tim hisses. "You ain't fight the River Kings last time we rumbled, didja? They're dirtier'n the hoods 'round these parts, and I ain't fixing to watch you bleed out on me, savvy?"

"I'm a good fighter."

"You can't catch a bullet," he says, and then Angela's standing in the doorway. He cusses.

"Tim," she says, and it doesn't matter that he can tell she's trying to be as tough as him. He sees her at fifteen and at five, always with that expression on her face, like she needs him to stick around for once.

"No," he says, and then, "why're you both up, it ain't even nine."

"Los Chiquis are in the hospital," Curly tells her, and Angela glances between the two of them.

"Did you call—"

"I called la Chiquis, yeah," he says, and tries to remember which of his siblings knows her best. She might've gone with Curly, for a little while; he's got vague memories of both her big brothers half-heartedly threatening Curly at some point back in the spring. Somewhere between Angela and Curly's age, looks like a china doll with curls tighter than theirs and pale as any Mexican who lives this close to Rogers.

She sounded like she'd been crying half the night. Tim doesn't want to imagine Angela in the same position, six or twelve or twenty-four hours from now, when Tim has finally dealt with the bastards who did this to his men. That he was planning on calling Isaiah today doesn't matter—he's got his answer, and that's that Tim wants to _live_. Maybe he'll get the chance to after today.

Or maybe, like los Chiquis, the youngest with a collapsed lung that's hardly been stabilized, he won't. All of them got baby faces, doesn't matter that the boys are eighteen and twenty now; there's barely three hairs on their chins between the two of them, and the nicknames came easily even if Tim has to resort to _Chiquis el mayor_, _Chiquis el menor_ when he has to holler for one of them. Doesn't much matter, though. At the end of the day they're all hoods, not much better than the River Kings, who decided that throwing down over a pair of hynas with a heater was a good idea.

"It's bullshit," Curly's saying now, "how you gonna head out by your lonesome—"

"I'm not heading straight to see Martin," Tim snaps again, knows his temper's rapidly getting the better of him, "I ain't a dipshit, Curl, don't think I'm taking tips outta your fucking handbook, alright? Brumly's gonna back me up."

"Why?" Angela looks confused. Tim tries to wrack his memories, feels almost pleased to think she's only got the vaguest sense of where Shepard loyalties do or do not lie. Brumly's been…decidedly neutral, the past few years. He doesn't like her running around with Douglas, not with that foster brother of his, but he's also done his damnedest to keep her from the rougher parts of what he and Curly get up to. Hell, Curly's seventeen and he's still trying to keep him out of trouble.

"Me and Solis got an understanding."

"That why you was running round with Lisa Bernal?" There's a sour curl to her lip he doesn't like. "She runs with Brumly."

"She don't run with nobody," Tim says, voice hard, "she keeps her nose outta men's business, maybe you oughta learn how, too."

It makes Angela flush, fury in her face clear as day. "That's a lie if I ever heard one," she says, nose up, smartest girl on earth, apparently, "Brumly started selling dope after she moved up here. You telling me that's a coincidence?"

"What d'you know about dope, huh, _niña_?" Tim turns away from both siblings, burns his tongue swallowing half a mug of coffee. It'll have to get him through however long this takes him. "Last I checked Bernal is a goddamn waitress living off tips. You think she makes money slinging?"

"She must've," Angela insists, and Tim grips her elbow, leads her back out of the kitchen even as she tries to wriggle free.

"You don't know shit," he says, and hates that it's the second time he's said that in less than twenty-four hours. Doesn't mean he's not glad it's true. "Call la Chiquis and tell her I'm handling it, alright? Bad enough she's related to them, she don't need to be crying about what happened, neither."

"Tim," Angela says, but then Tim's ducking out back to his car, parked at the vary back of their property. Curly's still following him.

Tim doesn't bother turning around. "Go inside."

"If you ain't heading to Brumly," he says, cajoling, "then what's the harm in me going with you, huh?"

Tim should've seen this coming. He doesn't glance at him until he's unlocking the driver side door, and it takes everything in him to not flinch at Curly's expression. Hasn't seen devastation like that since they sent him to the reformatory last, even if it wasn't hardly his first time. It's always scary, that last moment of freedom, thinking that maybe things'll turn out alright or maybe some honcho trying to prove himself will try to get the upper hand. Tim's better at not letting it show.

"Curly," he says, "if I outlive you it'll be my own goddamn fault. You think I want that on my conscience?"

"So you're gonna fight," Curly says. His voice is flat. Tim wonders if that's how he sounds, too.

Tim wants to be honest for once. Or maybe twice. Seems like he's been nothing but honest since the day before, when he finally admitted to himself that he's tired of this, that he wants the olive branch that Isaiah is extending to him. What a joke that today's happening at all, when the whole world was in his palm the day before.

He says, "This is the last time."

"What?"

"We're not doing this shit no more," he says, "not me, not you. Solis is cutting us a deal. He gets downtown and we don't get gunned down like halfa the folks in our outfits. Savvy?"

Curly face is unreadable. He says, "How?"

"Brumly's full of bums," Tim says, "shit, I'll say it to Solis myself. But he's the smartest bastard in this city. He offered me the same deal Bernal gave him last year. I'm saying no."

He can see Curly figure things out faster than he did. "He works with Guerra." His name ain't a secret, not even on this side of the border. Tim's pretty sure he owns all of Matamoros, he makes that much selling opium and the like—and not just in Tulsa. Tim can only guess at how widespread his network is. Doesn't want to think about what it means that Lisa calls him _tío_. If Tim wanted to die young he'd take the deal.

He can't believe it took him so long to realize he doesn't.

"We're done with this," Tim says. "I'm doing _this_ for los Chiquis, and that's it. Brumly'll help us out y ya. There. New territory for Solis."

"And if the guys don't wanna?"

"I watched him gut a man last spring," Tim says, and Curly flinches. Tim don't smile often. He knows it makes him look even scarier. "Go inside."

Curly doesn't listen, but he doesn't say anything else, either. When Tim checks his rearview mirror, he's still standing there, watching.

* * *

Isaiah's on his porch spooning eggs into his mouth, an open beer bottle next to the railing where he's leaning. He grins, too happy, when Tim pulls up to his home.

"Don't tell me you're high already," Tim says, and can't keep the disbelief from coloring his tone.

Isaiah, for his part, just laughs. He's in a white shirt like he wants it to show, later, that he's been busting heads. He's also wearing a pair of brown cowboy boots, nicer than the pair Tim's got thrown in the back of his closet for the _bailes_ that Luz used to drag him to in the summers. He's a little stunned to realize he even misses them.

"Morning, Shepard," he says, and when he smiles this time there's something maniacal about him, makes him look like a cartoon villain no matter the _pachuco_ swagger he carries everywhere. "Guess who just paid me a nice phone call?"

Tim pauses before he makes it to the front steps. Tries to figure out if he somehow had Isaiah's number written down somewhere, doesn't think Angela could have found it so fast.

Isaiah just laughs. "Martin," he says, and Tim flinches.

George Martin controls the Southside, has been running the show for years. He's not a force that Tim likes dealing with, not ever. He wasn't even present for their rumble a year ago, content to send his goons. Then again, he made it clear they had to deal with their own issues, more concerned with building his own empire, if such a thing could even be made in this city.

If Tim had been planning on saying yes to Isaiah's offer, he would have needed to pay more attention to Martin than he usually does. Fact is that the Kings are so far south they're barely on Tim's radar. Usually, of course.

"He said there's a rumor going 'round," Isaiah says, taking a swig from his drink. "Wants to know why I ain't offered to work with him instead of some Irish kid with a Spic mama."

Tim can feel his lip curl despite himself. Isaiah's smirk's about the same.

"I told if he don't like Spics so much, why would I bother making a call," he says, and shrugs, continues eating his eggs. "Didn't mention either of your men, though. You think that's on purpose?"

"I just got off the phone with their sister," Tim says, voice sharp, "she don't even know if they're gonna make it."

Isaiah's expression is unreadable. He says, "Martin wants a lunch meeting, figures himself a big dog. Untouchable, like white folks like to pretend they are." When he smiles, Tim has to fight to suppress a shiver. "Said he wants to talk with me 'bout _Mister Guerra_."

He doesn't roll the double-r. He's smirking. Tim says, "What're you planning?"

"Them Southsiders think I'm stupid," he says, "I'm gonna show them I'm not. You gonna help?"

"I want out," Tim says, and feels smaller for it. Isaiah's still grinning at him. Wild-eyed, like he's moving in for the kill.

"After this, Shepard, you will be," he says, and follows up with, "you hungry, compa? It might be a long day."

It goes like this: Isaiah thinks his life is a fucking movie. He's having the time of his life.

"You don't gotta worry none," Isaiah says, "I'll do the dirty work. I know you're tired of it." It's probably an insult. Tim's busy worrying Curly's going to track him out to Brumly, or worse, head south, so he can't say he's paying too much attention to Isaiah. Part of him recognizes he's still not the safest man in the city.

Isaiah's cracked open another beer. Tim hopes it's his second, and paces around his kitchen for several turns before he says, "Can I make a call?"

"This ain't a jail, ese," Isaiah says, and then, "sure."

He calls the house. Curly answers, and he almost says a prayer in thanks. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Tim tells him, "we're lying low. Gonna have it settled by tonight."

"You coming home?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Like I said," Tim says, and glances over at Isaiah, flipping through the funnies, "lying low. Don't get up to nothing stupid while I'm gone."

"I was gonna go see Vicky."

"Mano," Tim says, and his incredulous tone gets even Isaiah's attention, "you'll be lucky if Bernal lets her out the rest of the summer. Go bother Angela or something."

"She's out."

"With who? Ain't hardly ten in the morning."

"Bryon came by to see her."

"Hijo de—" Tim cuts himself off. It's not his old lady's fault Bryon Douglas came out such a jackass. "Damn it. Fine. That don't mean I want you outta the house."

Curly's quiet. "How bad is it?"

"It ain't." Isaiah's watching him soon. "It'll be over soon. How're los Chiquis?"

"Diana called," Curly says, and for a split-second Tim forgets they've all got real names, "says Mikey's out of surgery already."

"Good," Tim says, "anyone else call?"

"Nah. Just you."

"Alright," Tim says. Wants to say something like, _Stay safe_, but settles for, "If I hafta go save you from Bernal later I'll skin you myself, you hear?"

It gets him a little bit of laughter. "That all?"

"Yeah," he says, and after he hangs up looks back at Isaiah. "What time we heading out?"

"Hour and a half," he says. "Have a beer, compa, you look tense."

By the time they leave, Tim's had him explain the plan three times, each time with a little more information than the last. At its core it's simple: Isaiah and Martin walk in for a meeting; only Isaiah comes back out. The issues come up in the finer details.

They're meeting at a neutral joint, which means two things: Isaiah's got to time himself perfectly, and he's going to need a ride out of there. Tim, unfortunately, is in charge of the latter. He lights a cigarette the second he's in the driver seat.

"Don't get ash in my car, Shepard," Isaiah warns him. He looks the picture of relaxation. Tim ain't had to be a getaway driver in years; then again, he can safely say he's never walked into a burger joint with the express intention of shooting someone to death. Isaiah said this would be easy, but he's pretending he didn't hear him at all.

"How long's this gonna take?" If he pretends to be irritated, maybe he won't feel the panic. Figures Isaiah would make him accessory to murder twice in one lifetime.

"Half an hour, tops," Isaiah says. He bites at his thumbnail, says, "Lourdes wants to go to dinner tonight."

For a second Tim forgot Isaiah was still married. Hadn't heard a whisper of either her or their baby while they were still at Isaiah's, nor of his mother. He says, "She sleep in, then?"

"Nah," Isaiah says, "Elenita had a doctor's appointment, so my ma went with her." He grins, says, "Nine months old today."

"Felicidades," Tim says, a little drier than he means to, not that it bothers Isaiah.

"You make up with your girl yet?"

"No."

Isaiah clicks his tongue. "You gonna? Pretty sure one'a my guys was thinking of taking her to the next baile."

Tim breaks a little harder than necessary at the next light.

"Relax, _carnal_," Isaiah says, still grinning. Tim's grip on the steering wheel is perhaps a little much. "I didn't say he was gonna."

"I saw her yesterday." He doesn't like the smirk on Isaiah's face. "Was out with someone her cousins set her up with."

"You ain't put a stop to it?"

"Drove her home."

"That it?"

Tim says, instead, "What happens when we get there?"

"I get out," Isaiah says, "you circle 'til you hear a gunshot. If we're lucky, I'll be the one coming out running."

"And if it ain't?"

"Then we're both fucked." He's still grinning, but it's lost any of the warmth it might've held, eyes a Paris green. When he climbs out of the car, he says, "Don't get lost."

Tim circles slowly. What a joke, that Isaiah's got him wrapped up in yet another murder, and this one premeditated. Doesn't matter that he got away with it last time, or that he intends to get away with it again. This isn't Solis' territory, or even Tim's—witnesses can't be plied or threatened the same way, even if Isaiah claims there'll be none.

Solis is resigned to the life already. He might love that little girl of his fiercely, but it's clear he ain't fixing to clean himself up anytime soon. Tim might only be their big brother, but he wants to _live_ for the two kids he's been half-raising since he was one himself. He wants them to end up better than him, than their mother, than everyone they know. He can't do that in a prison cell. He can't get Luz back that way, either. Only way to do it is if he gets the hell out of this life.

When the gunshots ring out—three in quick succession—for a second Tim thinks this is it, Solis dead and Martin out for blood. But when he comes to a stop in front of the place, it's Isaiah who throws himself into the passenger seat again, and it's Tim who floors it, trying to ignore the way his hands are shaking.

"Goddamn," Isaiah says, over and over again, laughter like an alarm. "We did it."

It takes him a minute to get his bearings. Tim says, "This is the last time I'm helping you get away with murder, Solis," and when Isaiah says, like he didn't just start a war, "Don't worry, carnal, I don't break promises," he believes it.


	8. eight

Luz comes to find him.

He's out back working on his car when she shows up. Marches her way to him, really, in her work uniform with her lipstick reapplied. He hates to remember how much fun he had mussing it, a few months ago. Never one to admit that, though, all he does is raise his eyebrows when she finally stops in front of him.

He says, "We got a date I forgot about, o qué?"

"Hijo de tu—" Luz starts, and cuts herself off. He feels a sense of déjà vu. She rubs a hand over her face, then fixes him with a severe look; it's familiar, comforting. "Rumor has it George Martin's dead."

"Mija," he says, feeling like his uncles back in Jalisco, calling their mistresses _mija_ to differentiate from their _viejas_, "which of your cousins is fucking a King? Don't make sense, you knowing all this shit with Brumly when you live this close to Rogers."

"Mind your business," she snaps, but pink blooms over her face and she bites her lip.

Tim tries not to stare. Says, instead, finger in her face in the hopes of her reacting, "Is it Paulina? Be honest."

"Get outta my face," she says, scowling, but there's something almost gentle about how she pushes his hand away. Her touch lingers. "Leave my cousins outta this. I know you was running 'round with Bernal, and she's real buddy with Solis. If Martin's dead it's gotta be because of him."

"You tryna turn into some jefa?" Tim can't make sense of it. "Why's it matter what Solis gets up to? You friends with his wife now? It don't concern you." She opens her mouth, clearly furious, but he cuts her off, says, "I don't mean that in a bad way. I mean it really don't—you ain't gotta deal with me no more, and I know none of them brothers you got is running with any outfit in this city. I ain't take you for someone real invested in what kinda crimnals run this town."

"What, you think _you_ do?"

"Nope," Tim says, and shuts the hood of his car. He remembers how mad she was that he bought it instead of a ring—part of him wants to go back and consider the decision more fully, not that he's sure he'd make a different one. He'd get the ring first, though.

Luz waits for him to continue, looking a little outraged when he doesn't. "It don't matter to you that Martin's dead? One less problem for you, huh?"

"Chiquis el mayor is dead." Tim fixes her with a carefully blank look, tries to pretend it doesn't sting to say out loud. "Mikey's still in the hospital. Funerals are expensive."

Luz's expression is horrified. He doesn't let her speak, though—feels like a jackass, but he has to drive the point home.

"I ain't fixing to do the same with Curly," he says, "and I ain't planning on doing this shit over and over until it's them or me. You ain't the only one who wants a future."

"This time last year you was fine slinging. Hell, six months ago, too."

Tim rubs his hand over his face. "You think I can't change?"

She blinks, hard. "You wanna?"

"Yeah." They look at each other for a long time. She shakes her head.

"I don't believe you," she says. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "How can you go from running 'round in Brumly to…not?"

Tim doesn't want to have this conversation. He doesn't want to do this all outside. He doesn't want to do it, period. But he's going to. He says, "Let's go inside," and with his hand over her lower back, follows Luz to the kitchen.

He's lucky no one's home right now, but that might be because it's early afternoon on a weekday and his siblings are prone to wandering. His ma he's not too interested in keeping tabs on. Maybe someone will come home while Luz is yelling at him or maybe they'll talk, quiet, until things make a little bit more sense. He ain't ever wanted her in his business, not because he thought she was too dumb for it but because all it did was make her vulnerable.

Men don't usually go after women like that, but he doesn't trust easy, these days, no matter what Solis might think.

Tim tries to say the truth, but it doesn't come out right. Luz watches him with disbelieving eyes, across from him at the shitty table bought before Frankie Shepard died. When he finishes she says, "So you're done?"

"I fucking hope so," Tim says, and she almost smiles. He rubs his hand over his face. Sometimes, not often, he dreams of that night over a year ago. The way Ochoa's expression went carefully frozen and then finally still, the way blood threatened to pool around Tim's feet as he dragged Solis away. He remembers the look in the older man's eye clearly. He doesn't want to get caught up in that, ally or no. He says, "I'm out of it."

"And if Solis calls you?"

"He won't," Tim says, and hopes he's telling the truth. He can't imagine raising another family under the weight of this life—bad enough he's got Angela and Curly to look after, half-wild as they are.

She swallows. Says, finally, "What did it?"

"What?"

"What did it," she repeats. "You've been slinging since you was fourteen, fifteen. You're a grown man now. What made you change your mind?"

Tim stares at her. It almost hurts to say—"It wasn't you." He can't make sense of her expression. He doesn't want to lie to her, either. Instead he continues, "What d'you wanna hear? That you leaving made me change my mind? There's worse things than being _lonely_, mija."

He tries not to shrink underneath her gaze. Her eyes are steely, a fight there like it always is. Her uniform is a little dirty—not filthy, but like some flour might have smeared over the fabric while she leaned over the counter for something. She's serious as she ever is, but different, too, he thinks. When she dumped him it was frantic—all that anger and disbelief coiling together in both of them. Now it's deceptively calm. There's something like acceptance on her face. If he were a more positive man, he'd think it might lead to something good.

He says, his voice almost surprisingly clear, "I got too much to do to get caught up with Solis, savvy?" and then, at her still-suspicious expression, softer, "I can't leave the kids, Luz. I'm all they've fucking got."

"Tim," she says. Her eyes look sad. She's spent years taking care of her own brothers. She reaches out, puts her hand over his. "They ain't that young, either."

He shakes his head. "Yeah, they are." He was about Curly's age when he started dating her. Too young to know what he was doing in this world and forced to figure it out anyway. If he's lucky enough to stop it, Curly won't have to deal with that shit at all.

Luz takes a deep breath. She's silent, wrestling with something clearly, when she finally says, "So what's it mean?"

"I'm done," he says. And then Tim just looks at her for a long moment. If it were anyone else they'd squirm. Good thing it's Luz.

She says, "I said I didn't wanna see you die."

"I ain't dying."

"I know," she says, and curls her fingers over his. "So what's it mean?"

Tim swallows. He can't believe he's nervous—years he's spent with her, and months he's been wanting her back. Her gaze is knowing, brown eyes bright. He missed her so bad it's a physical ache. He's just not sure he's offering anything new. Maybe even less, now that the drug money's run dry. He says, "Nena. I still don't have a real job."

She says, "Tim, you're so _stupid_," and then puts her arms around him like she did the other night in his car, kissing him just as fiercely as she did then. He puts both hands at her waist and just holds onto her, inhaling the scent of her perfume and feeling at peace like he hasn't since the start of summer.

He's breathless when they pull apart. Luz finds enough air to say, "Who all's home?"

He'll blame oxygen deprivation for his initial confusion. "What? No one. I told you."

"When'll they be back," she says, eyes not leaving his, and he feels her hands slip down his chest, feels his mouth go a little dry at what he thinks she's suggesting.

"Later," he says, though he's not one-hundred percent sure. She wavers, pink lipstick smudged, but her eyelashes flutter when he leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth, her jaw. She turns her head like she wants more and somehow stops herself. He's always admired her stubbornness.

"Are you sure?" she says.

Tim's honest, at least. "No."

It makes her grin and then stop herself, teeth against her lower lip, looking like the best thing Tim's ever seen. "Goddamn it, Tim," she says, but kisses him again anyway, and says, after, still close enough that their lips brush when she speaks, "Take me downstairs," and Tim ain't stupid, alright? He knows better than to argue with her by now.

* * *

His mother might kick up a fuss when she comes home to find the two of them half-dressed and eating the last of the leftovers in the form of tacos de frijol, but she at least doesn't say anything to Luz about being able to do better. No doubt she'll wake him up early tomorrow and set him to scrubbing her house down; Tim's got more pressing things to do, like drag Luz back to bed and count all the new freckles he's missed since they split.

Afterwards, though, he can't get one of the questions she asked him out of his head. What happens if Solis comes calling? Tim said he's done but does that really matter to the men in this city, who shoot each other down during lunch meetings and laugh about it on the frenzied drive home? Tim doesn't know too many people who've stayed in the life forever—eventually men grow old and start families and lose sons to the life, too.

Isaiah's different, though. He's got the wife and baby and mother taken care of real pretty in that nice house of his, no matter that it's in Brumly and that he clearly just kicked a coke habit. He has eggs and beers for breakfast and then drags his men to the brink of war. Tim doesn't want that anymore, but suddenly he's afraid that because he agreed once—maybe even twice—Solis might come calling if things get a little rough.

Power doesn't always pass peacefully. Tim's taken to carrying a heater on him just in case someone changes their minds about what he did to survive. But Tim's out of the game, now. There's no one he can turn to and ask about what happens _after_.

But then he remembers who he spent half the summer screwing and decides it's worth the risk of some _malcriada_ catching him and setting the rumor mill spinning again. He'll deal with that if it happens. In the meantime, he heads out towards Hale, to the little diner across the street where itty bitty Bernal works, a waitress just like his girl and maybe just the first of many things they have in common.

She doesn't look too impressed to see him. It's early, a Tuesday towards the end of August. There's a teen couple who look hungover, and she raises an eyebrow when the bell over the door alerts the place to his arrival.

She says, "Mornin', Shepard. Booth or counter?" and leads him to a table in the corner, where he can sit with his back to the wall and just watch. She pours him coffee, expression betraying no emotion.

He says, "You hear the news?"

"What news." He's surprised she doesn't snap any gum at him. She's got a worse attitude than Luz, the difference being that underneath it Luz is soft like toffee, face open with joy when he picked her up for their last date, bouquet of flowers in his hand like it was a special occasion. Tim'll buy her flowers every week for the rest of their lives if it means seeing her smile like that again.

He tears open a packet of sugar, says casually, "River Kings don't have a man, no more. Rumor has it they're scrambling to keep it together."

"Didn't take you as the type to listen to rumors," she says. Her hair is pulled back, a long braid over her shoulder blades. The pink of her uniform doesn't suit her—she seems tough all the way through, no matter that he remembers how she talked about Randle, all those weeks ago. He's almost jealous of how little her face gives away. "Martin's been dead weeks. Everyone who's anyone knows that." She leans in close. "_I_ heard it from the source."

"Fucking Solis," Tim says, unthinking, and only then does Bernal crack a grin. "What else he say, huh?"

"I don't talk," she says, shrugging. She glances over her shoulder, the only other customers still absorbed in themselves and their plates of greasy foods. "You come in to eat or chat?"

"Yeah," he says, "get me a burger, doll. I tip real well."

"Not sure I want that from you," she says, even as she pulls a small notebook from the apron tied around her waist, "I had some girls come by the other day, laughin' like I was a joke while they was talkin' 'bout that girl of yours. You finally get her back?"

"Yeah," he says, a little surprised but pleased. Figures that Luz's cousins are in the know already. Bunch of chismosas in the worst and maybe best ways—he likes the thought of everyone knowing that Luz is his again.

"Good for you," she says, and then, "how d'you like your burgers?"

When she comes back with his plate she tells him she's on break now and sits across from him with an orange she digs into, nails piercing the peel and making him flinch. He can't say he's afraid of some five-foot-nothing broad, but. Bernal is something else.

"You came by for a reason," she says, not looking up from her snack, "and I know it ain't 'cause you wanna be friends. What d'you care about me knowin' what Isaiah did?"

"He tell you I'm done?"

She looks up at him, eyebrows raised. "He mentioned somethin', sure."

Tim can't even bring himself to bite into the burger he's ordered, no matter how good it smells. He says, "He the type to let go?"

She tilts her head. "What d'you mean?"

"You run around with him a lot, don't you," Tim says, and before she can raise her hackles, continues, "you just like the company or do you owe someone something?"

"I don't do shit I don't want," she says, curt. He can smell orange even from across the table. "How much he tell you, huh? Was it about Tommy, or my tío Juan?" When she smiles it's cunning and familiar. She's the type to eat a man alive, and for a second Tim feels lucky that it wasn't him. "Lemme guess. You wanna know if Solis will keep his promise."

Tim doesn't like that she seems to know more than he realized. He wonders how it is that she's got eyes everywhere. Or maybe just one set, the same ones Tim handed his territory to in the hopes of getting out of it.

She looks at him, considering, eyelashes dark against her cheekbones. Her eyes on his feel like a threat. She says, "You think I helped Isaiah 'cause it was easy? Be honest."

He says, because he hates the answer he can guess, Lisa sixteen or seventeen years old with a steady she couldn't shake and a tío she could convince to give her the world, "How worried do I oughta be?"

She shrugs. Continues to eat her orange section by section. "'S long as whatever deal you cut stays true, you don't gotta," Bernal says, but there's a far off look in eye, "it's just real easy, gettin' caught up with Isaiah. He's real charmin' that way."

Tim's a little concerned. "How caught up are _you_?"

"I'm just some girl," she says, and her eyes clear. "You're the type to think this is men's work, right? That works fine by me."

He says, "Lisa," maybe the first time he's said her name, and she just shakes her head.

"I trust him," she says, "but that don't mean he's not dangerous. Unless he thinks he's got a price on his head, Isaiah won't come callin'. And if you're lucky, not even then." She gets up then. "You need anythin' else? My shift ends soon."

"No." Tim's not sure where this leaves him. He tries not to quash the hope in his lungs with this larger worry, of getting dragged back in despite himself. He wants to focus on the bigger picture—save up to get himself out of the house as soon as possible, even if it means dragging the kids with him. Buy a ring and maybe a house and start a real family. This has to be the end of it.

Bernal says, "Good luck," and starts to turn, pauses, looks back at him. That maneater smile's almost enough to make his skin crawl. "You're real smart, y'know that? Askin' me instead of any of his crew."

When he says nothing she laughs.

"Tell your girl I said congratulations," she says, "glad to hear she's a happy girl," and leaves him with his face burning, trying to figure out how to feel.

He leaves a good tip anyway. If he's lucky, this is the last he'll see of Bernal for a long while.


End file.
